


Harvest of Sorrow

by do_androids_dream



Series: Road of no release (A wolf and his flame series) [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Blood and Violence, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon - Freeform, Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, Fanart, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, In supporting roles: Eskel and Lambert, Light Angst, M/M, Mystery, Non-Canon Relationship, Original Character(s), Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Suspense, Triss Merigold - Freeform, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Yennefer of Vengerburg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:42:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 91,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26466631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/do_androids_dream/pseuds/do_androids_dream
Summary: Nilfgaard is facing the biggest wedding the city has ever seen, yet the marriage preparations are suddenly interrupted when Geralt is abducted. Attempting to conceal this, Emhyr is confronted with two threats at once. The fragile balance of power must be maintained while the frantic search begins. Will there be a happy ending this time?Or: The wedding you asked for, but then again, not. Vampires, assassins, magicians - they all stand in the way! Unusual alliances are forged, and someone is a curious cat. Will our two favorite idiots ever find their happiness?
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Road of no release (A wolf and his flame series) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724449
Comments: 72
Kudos: 95





	1. Introduction

This one's thankfully beta-read by [Enveva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enveva/pseuds/enveva), thank you very much! I'm sorry for causing annoyance again because of the chapter numbering. This is chapter 0, if you will - as the introduction always is.  
  
Playlist [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLNN0QGNgLD0HwptXGJLpT_goptcHBk6uG) | [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1C5nAzWLDU4ByTnLveg4tD?si=nL38jxOrSPy7wobNzRGWDA) | [Bonus playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4WKtIzpwcb0Bzc1rjPwdve?si=Ji7zMSF7QcKCCugC3W9_Ow) with all the chapter title songs (besides "Doom", which is a bonus track that's not available)  
Please give some love for this fantastic cover version of the name giving song, [Harvest of Sorrow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vSi0Ccvdr8).   
Wanna have a chat? Follow me on [Tumblr](https://do-androids-dream-ao3acc.tumblr.com) | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/DreamAndroids).


	2. Prologue / Darkness falling down on me

**Prologue**

\- _Beauclair, a few days after Lammas_ -

Above the shop door, a bell gently rang as they left the store. The black-haired sorceress sighed.  
"Seriously, Ciri. Why exactly are we here?"  
She blinked into the high sun, tugging impatiently at her clothes. As usual, she wore a black dress with white details, but it was clearly too warm for the temperatures of a Touissaint summer, and the generous neckline didn't change that.  
"Don't be grumpy, Yen," Ciri replied with a grin. "I told you I was going to Beauclair to look for a wedding present; you could have dressed accordingly."  
She herself wore almost shockingly short trousers that showed her calves - Yennefer had called that the "peasant girl look" when she arrived. The very loose, light-colored blouse she wore over it did not make it any better. At least not for the stern look of the sorceress. But Ciri's clothing was hardly different from that of the Beauclair citizens, who were almost all a little more casual at this time of year. Moreover, the outfit was appropriate for the hot weather.  
  
Yennefer sighed again.  
"We've been to three stores now, and you didn't like anything. I told you Kovir would have been a better choice," she said as they walked back together on the busy street. "No, it must be something from Touissaint," Ciri repeated persistently. "It fits best with Geralt.".  
"He hasn't even been here for a while," said the sorceress displeased. Ciri glanced at her as they walked down the street.  
"How do you know that?" she asked. When Yennefer did not answer, she stopped and looked at her sharply. "Yen! Were you spying on him? Don't tell me you wouldn't have come if he was in Corvo Bianco."  
Yennefer turned to the store on her left and pretended to look at the display while muttering, "Well, at least we don't have to pay him a courtesy call like that."  
Ciri rolled her eyes. "You're invited to his _wedding_ , so I suppose you'll have to talk to him then."  
Yennefer stepped back into the street and gracefully replied, "That's something else entirely."  
  
At that moment, a woman approached them. She was not a peasant girl, but decidedly not a noblewoman either. The inconspicuous, fair-skinned figure with her hair cut short, as was the city's current fashion, placed one hand on Yennefer's right upper arm. The sorceress frowned, and Ciri almost held her breath. It was apparent what Yen was thinking because it was written on her face: How dare that woman touch her?  
"Excuse me," said the lady in a soft voice, "I must have tripped."  
She had already let go of Yen, bowed briefly to both of them, and briskly walked down the street.  
  
Frowning, Yennefer looked after her until the woman had disappeared around the next corner.  
"Lucky for her," Ciri said with a grin. "I thought you'd be tearing her head off right now."   
The sorceress looked thoughtful and glanced down the street for a moment. Then she turned to Ciri again and sighed for the third time.  
"Fine, which shop is next?"

  


-1-

 **Darkness falling down on m** e

\- _The city of Nilfgaard, a few weeks later_ -

During the day, the city of Nilfgaard seemed to glow. It was not because of the temperature; autumn had already begun and brought the first chilly winds, harbingers of the approaching winter. The golden roofs of the capital reflected the sunlight, making it look as though sunbeams danced across them. The city was widely known for this effect. But even when the sun went down, the sight was breathtaking. At this time of the year, one had to be quick so as not to miss it. There were only seconds between the moment when the roofs were bathed in an almost supernatural purple glow and the pale grey wash of the evening sky. It was a sight one never tired of, even as someone who looked over it all with the knowledge that it all belonged to him. Everything, except for the sunlight itself.  
  
Emperor Emhyr var Emreis overlooked the city from one of his palace balconies. He had not been here for a long time and truly believed that the beauty of the town would be etched into his memory. Still, it was good to be back to see all of it once again. It had not been easy to convince Geralt that their marriage had to occur in Nilfgaard in any case. In the end, it was unclear whether he had given in to the numerous facts, which consisted of all kinds of political calculations. Perhaps he had only consented so that he would not have to hear all these reasons anymore - or out of pure love, which would have been a valid reason after all. They had both had to compromise a few things, but that had not been too difficult - each of them possessed remarkable powers of persuasion.  
  
The very thought of it brought a smile to his sharp-edged features. It didn't matter, nobody would see it. He was alone, Geralt was late, he had missed the evening glow. There would be other occasions, and yet Emhyr wondered what had kept his future husband so long. _His future husband_. The thought was still as fascinating as it was almost frightening.  
  
By now, the light had completely changed to a dull grey, a soft veil of darkness that covered the city and soon plunged it into black. In the distance, at the city’s western districts, the first lights were already lit. Emhyr, with his hands clasping the balustrade, slowly released his grip and with it his gaze over the city. In the corridors of the palace, servants scurried around and lit the lamps. The guards who had waited inside for his return followed him silently through the halls. Heavily armored soldiers, reminding him that Vizima still felt like an interim solution and would probably always remain so. It was here where he belonged.  
  
It actually felt good to be back, even if it was only temporary. He had planned to show Geralt some of the city, but they hadn't gotten around to it yet. Emhyr had - uncharacteristically - actually underestimated the turmoil his return to the capital would cause. Everyone seemed to feel obliged to report to him about numerous events he hadn't been able to attend. Even though he had always been informed about everything - if with some delay. The fact that he had returned to Nilfgaard for his own wedding did not seem to prevent his court from bombarding him with things he did not wish to hear about at the time. It had been difficult enough to escape, let alone find time to watch the sunset — all the more reason for him to wonder where Geralt was.

  


His private chambers lay in darkness; the rest of the day's light could not reach the north wall's windows. It took his eyes a moment to penetrate the blackness. After the doors closed, he slowly entered the room and nearly tripped over an object lying on the floor. Emhyr almost cursed. "You better not have fallen asleep," he murmured into the silent darkness. He wondered for a moment if what lay at his feet was part of Geralt's armor. Wherever they went, these things had a tendency to spread out anywhere in their rooms, especially when they were in a hurry to remove them from his body. It could not be denied that their arrival a few hours ago had led to just that, after they had finally escaped the advisers, courtiers, and councilors.  
  
When Emhyr's eyes had finally succeeded in perceiving more than only outlines in the grayish darkness, he realized that what lay at his feet was completely different. It was a small, toppled table, a decorative, though practically useless, little piece of furniture. There was just enough room for a narrow vase that had fallen over with it, rolled up against a back wall, with its flowers spread across the floor.  
  
The water had left two small puddles on the stone floor. One seemed amazingly dark to him, even in this murky blackness. For some reason, he became suspicious and bent over to take a closer look at the floor. One of these puddles was, in fact, water. The other, however, seemed to have a different color and consistency. It might have been just the darkness, but Emhyr reached out a hand and carefully ran a finger across the moisture. He brought the finger up close to his face. This was not water… this was blood.  
  
"Geralt?" he called softly into the room, although he already suspected that he would not receive an answer. Not for a moment did Emhyr think that this overturned table and the miraculously unbroken vase might have an innocuous reason. The blood spoke its own language, one he was used to from sorrowful experience. Yet he forbade himself the slightest hint of worry in a situation where an analytical mind was required. He was capable of that. Emhyr stared into the darkness as if he could force his eyes to penetrate the blackness faster. It would have been easy to retreat, to open the door, let the guards and light in, and investigate the matter thoroughly. But he hesitated, filled with an inexplicable feeling of unease. Slowly he took a step deeper into the room, and another, one at a time, keeping close to the wall and paying careful attention to the floor.  
  
There were other, albeit rather fleeting, signs of a fight. A kind of scattered disorder covered the room. Things were out of place; it seemed as if someone had reached for them in a hurry - to hold on to them, maybe to use them as a weapon? He also discovered other traces of blood, despite the dimness of the room. Although they were smaller, only a few drops, their sight bothered him more than the small puddle near the entrance. Perhaps it seemed too unreal to him, like an illusion that you met in a dream, that turned out to be something else entirely when you woke. A kind of metaphor that the subconscious mind wanted to use to point something out.  
  
But despite the darkness, which made the surroundings appear even more oneiric, all this was only too real. Whatever had happened here was a new and real threat. And Emhyr, usually not so easily shaken, found that he was almost afraid of what he might find in the sleeping chamber. He took one last look behind him. There were the outlines of the door on whose other side the guards stood. He only had to call them. They would ignite the lanterns, bring torches to illuminate the surroundings, secure the traces. On the other hand: Where had the guards been when the table had fallen over, when the vase had sprinkled its contents on the floor, when blood had been spilled? Where had they been when these traces had been left here - the evidence of what, exactly? Emhyr had the feeling that part of the answer was not hidden beyond the door behind him, but the one in front of him.

  


The door to the bed-chamber was half-open, and in a twisted kind of invitation, the drops of blood led to it. _We'll be married soon,_ he suddenly thought. _Whatever happened, why now? What have you done now, Geralt?_ Strangely enough, these thoughts actually gave him the strength to approach the door. Slowly and cautiously, he stepped through the blackness and finally pushed the door further open. The window on the opposite side of the door was open. It was almost ridiculous, but for a moment, Emhyr wondered if it had always been that way. Geralt hated it when he forgot to close the windows; he didn't care where they were, if they were on a higher floor, he always told him to close the damned windows. His need for safety - for Emhyr's safety, above all - was still higher than any sense of comfort, and he tended to subordinate everything else to this need.  
  
So the window was open, and it was facing a different direction than the one in the room before. It pointed in the northern part of the city, where many lights had been lit in the meantime. The glow of some of them was like a distant echo even up here. It was not much, but it was enough to bring out the dark room's contours a little more clearly. Although it was by far not the only piece of furniture in this almost lavishly decorated room, the bed clearly dominated the interior. It was notably large, maybe the only quirk he had ever allowed himself because of his position - apart from his preference for elegant clothes, perhaps. No matter how big the bed was, he spread out in it as if it was the only place - and mostly it was - where he could let himself go completely. But that was not a thought he wanted to hold on to at this particular moment. For not far from there was a pair of boots lying alongside the carelessly dropped breastplate, and the blankets were still rumpled. Drops of blood led past the bed, which was somehow relieving, and pointed to the window.

__

  
Emhyr did not go further into the room; he felt he had seen enough - and somehow nothing at all. He thought for a moment, then turned around decisively, crossed both chambers, and threw open the main door. He blinked, surprised, and almost confused by the sudden light in the brightly lit corridor. The guards by the door looked stoically straight ahead. He turned to the right one and barked his order, "Bring me the court sorceress. And my daughter."

[](https://abload.de/image.php?img=e2mhyrcommissionqzj1o.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As every author, I die for your comments (not literally, of course!). And I love to talk about witcher stuff! Find me on [Tumblr](https://do-androids-dream-ao3acc.tumblr.com) | [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/DreamAndroids)
> 
> Chapter title is from "The quest for Tanelorn". Art is by [Nbgeralt](https://nbgeralt.tumblr.com).
> 
> Let's start with a song for this chapter, let it be ["Harvest of Sorrow"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yGfqgESJxY&list=PLNN0QGNgLD0HwptXGJLpT_goptcHBk6uG), of course :)


	3. Let's find out now that I'm not dreaming

-2-

**Let’s find out now that I'm not dreaming**

They seemed to know immediately, almost instinctively, that something was wrong. It might have been the simple but unusual fact that Emhyr called them to his private chambers - or the timing.  
"You are both expected at dinner," Triss said, impatiently. "And so are we, by the way. So, what's going on?"  
Befitting her status as imperial court sorceress, she was formally dressed for the occasion, donned in a high-necked, dark dress; her bright red hair pinned up and even provided with small beads. Very few dinners in this palace were truly private; even Ciri had to adapt to this. She appeared behind the sorceress, her hair neatly tied and, if not in a dress, at least in respectable clothing. Under other circumstances, Emhyr would have found this commendable - he had taken her quite sudden disappearance half a year ago as a hint. A hint that she wanted to keep control over certain things, perhaps. In that respect, she was not unlike Geralt. Emhyr felt as if his mind was wandering into dangerous territory again. As if the mere thought of Geralt would keep him from approaching this matter with necessary distance. Yet, how could he keep his distance if he held the fear that something happened here that was beyond his control?  
  
"What's wrong?" Ciri asked, although her father's dark eyes made it clear that she would not get an answer. Triss frowned, about to ask something similar, but Emhyr shook his head slightly. He then opened the door to his chambers, just a crack wide so they could all enter. Behind them, he immediately pulled the door closed.  
"Why is it so dark in here?" Ciri inquired.  
"Light the candles," Emhyr replied softly.  
Triss murmured a single word into the darkness. Suddenly, the room brightened; candle lights on the wall lit up, and a small lantern on a table in a corner threw a flickering light across the room. On a shelf, a thick white candle on a bronze plate flared up.  
  
The brightness was almost confusing, and the candles' soft glow formed a sharp contrast to the surroundings. Due to the lighting, it was immediately apparent that something was wrong, Triss sucked in a breath of air sharply.  
"What happened here?" Ciri asked in a stern voice, gesturing to the bloodstain on the floor. The room's disorder was striking, but this was the most definitive evidence of a much bigger problem. "And where is Geralt?" she added, as if she had not directly drawn her conclusions.  
Triss bent over the stain as if she could tell whose blood had been spilled here just by looking at it. Her eyes followed the trail of blood, absorbing everything in the room. "I have no answers," Emhyr said in unfamiliar openness.  
"And you have obviously brought us here to get them," the sorceress replied, shrewdly. "You came in, noticed something, and instead of instantly informing the guards...."  
"We are a few days away from an imperial wedding, Triss," Ciri interrupted her. "Whatever happened, if we make a big fuss now, rumors will spread all over the city. No one needs that now."  
After a brief, almost stunned silence, Emhyr replied dryly, "Astonishing, she occasionally listens, so it seems."  
  
Triss continued glancing thoughtfully at the bloodstains. "What's in the bedroom?" she asked. There was neither fear nor curiosity in her voice, yet it sounded like she fretted about finding bad things there. "Nothing," Emhyr replied truthfully. "More blood, nothing else."  
"One just doesn't disappear from this place," Ciri said resolutely. It was the first time she had been here, but of course; she was correct. She had seen enough places by now - royal palaces, castles of high nobility, military fortresses - to know that this was probably the most secure place of all. Moreover, she forbade herself thoughts of concern. There were signs of a struggle, yes. But Geralt was a witcher. The security of the palace itself and this simple fact should have been reason enough, yet these traces could not be denied.

  


Ciri went to the shelf, grabbed the candle on the plate, and approached the sleeping chamber door. "Wait," Triss said, while she reached out to Ciri in a familiar gesture. "Shall we get Adan to analyze the tracks?"  
"He is already here?"  
"Well, he came with me," Triss replied to Ciri's almost suspiciously asked question, with an undertone as if she had to defend herself. But Ciri just grinned. Triss was not the only one who felt the impudence of that smile.  
"We don't need a witcher for this," Ciri said, gesturing vaguely at the chaos around. "I had excellent teachers."  
Ciri shone the candle in her hand into the corner where the vase lay in shadow. She bent over, placed the plate onto the floor and carefully grabbed the vase by its lower end. "Marble," she murmured approvingly.  
"That is why it did not break when it fell," said Emhyr.  
Ciri shook her head.  
"It did not fall down," she replied, holding the vase up. Now it was clearly visible that its opening was dark with blood - apparently the cause of the small puddle on the floor. "It was used as a weapon and then thrown away." A gesture underlined her words; she held out her hand with the vase as if she wanted to throw it away once more. Emhyr reached for it, but not because he thought she would truly throw the thing; he wanted to hold it in his hands almost as to solidify the proof that something had happened there.  
  
"Is that Geralt's blood?" he asked quietly as he clasped the cold marble.  
"Papa…" Ciri began, hesitantly.  
"We don't know," Triss intervened gently but firmly. "We don't know anything, so let's examine these traces. Ciri?"  
The younger woman nodded. "To the bedroom first."  
She picked up the candle again and approached the door, carefully avoiding the drops of blood. Emhyr and the sorceress followed her slowly. Inside, Triss' magic lit every light once again, but there were much less in here, it was good that Ciri had taken the candle with her. The flickering flames in the wall brackets and on the bedside table cast long shadows into the room, thus intensifying the gloom that lay above everything despite their light.  
  
Ciri looked around, shining her candle here and there. Just before the silence in the room became burdensome, she spoke.  
"Where have you been?"  
Emhyr looked up in surprise, noticing he was still holding the vase in his hand. He put it on the floor and glanced at his daughter, questioningly. Ciri pointed at the bed, unusually impatiently; she wanted him to keep up although she was two steps ahead.  
"Someone was lying here for a while," she said. "But the faint shape here suggests that it was only one person. Maybe asleep? I'm assuming it wasn't you."  
Not for the first time, Emhyr was glad that both his past and his iron will have taught him to control his facial expressions. Even in front of his own daughter. Or rather, in this case, especially in front of her. Her assumption was only half correct. He had been in this bed as well, only that he had gone afterward, not to miss the sundown.  
  
"I was outside," he gave a vague reply.  
"How long?"  
He thought about it.  
"Half an hour, maybe a little while longer."  
"Not enough time for a deep sleep, more a slumber," Ciri remarked.  
"What are you getting at?" asked Triss.  
Ciri vaguely pointed to the bed, then to the blood trail that didn't run near it, which Emhyr had already noticed.  
"Maybe he did fall asleep, but something woke him up. He heard a noise, jumped up, reached for his swords."  
The others followed her gaze to the wall. There, right beside the bed, stood one of the two objects Geralt always deposited with extreme care. Yet, there was only one sword… quite striking.  
  
Ciri continued to speak as she moved from the bed back towards the door, swinging her right arm as if wielding a sword.  
"Whoever attacked him didn't give him much of a chance to strike out," she followed up, pointing to a scratch in the wall. Her arm, now the imaginary sword, touched the wall to demonstrate what had probably happened.  
"Then where is the second sword?" Triss asked, looking around the room searching. Ciri raised her hand. "Wait," she returned. "At that moment, he still had it in his hand.“  
As she continued, Emhyr visualized her story so clearly that it was almost as if he could see the events with his own eyes. His memory led him back to the moment he had last seen him. Geralt, only in his shirt, lying on the bed; he had mockingly advised him to at least put on his pants before following him on the balcony. Geralt's words echoed in him, he had replied in a light, typically dry manner, "Who is to blame that I took them off at all, huh?" He had smiled, and just before Emhyr closed the door, he had seen Geralt reach for the garment. Even though the memory ended there, it wasn’t hard for him to imagine Geralt, dressing while lying down, only to just lie there for a moment, pondering. Geralt occasionally fell into the strangest moods when they had been together, so it was easy to imagine him staring a the ceiling, maybe still with that little, exceptional smile on his face. He may have noticed his own tiredness afterward, maybe he had unintentionally given in to it. Perhaps his eyes had suddenly closed, and he had simply fallen asleep. It was just another one of his specialites: he could fall asleep anywhere, and almost instantly. Likewise, he did not sleep for days on end, if necessary.  
  
Ciri, of course, didn't say anything like that; her movements imitated those Geralt might have made. She made assumptions about what had happened, and Emhyr's thoughts followed what she told him. It wasn't hard for him to envision Geralt, whose survival instinct woke him at the slightest sound. He saw Geralt's closed eyes open with a jerk, saw him jump up; reaching for the sword - a flowing movement, pure muscle memory. He saw him holding the sword in his hand, then out it in front of him. Emhyr could visualize how he fended off an attacker - although the latter remained nebulous in his vision. The inner image he created showed Geralt with a grim, determined look; now, he swung out, grazing the wall. Ciri continued with her explanation, and the Geralt in his imagination retreated, moving swiftly through the room despite the darkness.  
  
Ciri's voice brought him back to reality.  
"Whoever attacked him could see as well as he can in the dark, probably even better," she said. "He followed him, reaching for the vase, knocking over the table."  
She had put the table back in its original position in one swift motion, now turning it over again with a knock of her hip to demonstrate what might have happened. "He came close enough to dodge the sword and strike with the vase. Maybe he threw it, hard to tell. Geralt went down, he lost the sword."  
Now, two pairs of eyes fixed on Ciri. How was it possible they had overlooked the sword in that brightly lit room? She pointed to a shelf at the wall, heavily laden with books, and they followed her gaze. The blade had slipped under the lowest board, which was not quite attached to the floor. There was a slim gap between the shelf and the ground, just enough for something so narrow - except for the handle. Now it was clearly visible, they had failed to look all the way down. Ciri approached the shelf and pulled out the sword. It was a bit stuck; she had to lean against the board with her foot while she pulled. When she finally had the weapon, Ciri held the blade close to her eyes, illuminating it with the candle she held in her hand.  
  
"No blood," she said, squinting her eyes together. "He didn't get him."  
"Whoever it was, he must have been swift and skillful," the sorceress answered thoughtfully.  
"Of course," Ciri returned in a tone as if Triss' remark had been a kind of insult to Geralt's abilities.  
"In any case," Triss quickly added, "we know this blood trail started here. And since it leads to the bedroom window..."  
"He hardly jumped out the window," said Emhyr with his typical impatience, suggesting that he'd heard enough by now.  
"Of course not, but we are on the second floor," Ciri remarked. "The tracks are irregular, and their shape also tells me that the height from which they were inflicted does not match a head injury of someone of Geralt's size. Which means that the assailant was carrying him."  
"Did you look outside?"  
This was Triss, who, suddenly disturbed, went back into the adjoining room.  
"No, I didn't," Emhyr said, a touch sharper than necessary.  
Triss was already at the window, peering into the gloominess out there, only slightly illuminated by the city's lights.  
"I don't think anyone threw him out the window." Ciri's voice showed an impatience that she could only have inherited from her father. Triss, who couldn't see anything in the palace grounds down there, replied, "Well, then what, he must not have flown... oh."  
"What?" Emhyr immediately asked, insistently. Unlike the other two, he still had no idea what was going on.  
  
Ciri came closer and put one hand on his shoulder. It was a rare gesture of familiarity. Their always slightly tense relationship hadn't improved since she had renounced her duties and disappeared half a year ago. She had only reappeared a few weeks ago, without saying much about what she had done, where she had been. And she had also kept her future unclear until then. But now the two of them shared a common affection and concern. Geralt was their link, he had been since the beginning.  
  
"He didn't _fly_ out the window, that much is true. Not by his own power. Someone took him. Someone for whom it was easy to break into the second floor of a heavily guarded palace. Someone who had no difficulty in overpowering a witcher."  
"Who would that be?" asked Emhyr, though he expected the answer as urgently as he feared it.  
"A higher vampire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Another stranger me".


	4. There's whispering in the winds

**\- 3 -**

**There's whispering in the wind**

Adan liked to explore new, unknown places in the dark. Of course, in the daytime, he could capture everything necessary in a few moments. This was not just a mere habit; it was an essential part of his profession. A specific natural curiosity didn't interfere with that. They had only just arrived, and the palace had already told him a lot. Yet, no secrets; the number of guards and their armament, unlike Vizima, was no simple display, but a real warning.  
  
However, the sheer size of the place was not a particular challenge for the witcher of the cat school. After the sun had set, the Imperial Palace, like all other places, shrank to a conglomerate of shadows and narrow islands of light, of silence and retreat. Its corridors emptied; the constant chatter became involuntary whispers. Courtiers and nobles, councilors, the staff of advisors, and whoever else was still wandering around there during the day, they all seemed to rush off with the sunset like a startled flock of birds.  
  
A bell chimed gently from somewhere down below, a sign that one of the various dinners was being served; there were several, apparently arranged according to a complicated scheme distributed between all ranks and classes within the palace. It was another reason for the corridors to empty. The number of servants, who seemed to be as discreet as ever-present, also decreased. However, their tasks and duties by no means seemed to dwindle with the evening hours; lamps and fires had to be lit, and many a noblewoman froze without additional blankets over their furs. The occasional eccentric wishes of all those present in the palace diminished somewhat with the approaching dinners. Still, they would no doubt rise again as soon as the first went to rest.  
  
One more thing was different, regardless of the time of day… there was far less staring. In the palace, weapons were forbidden to all but the guards, so Adan was without his swords. Yet for one thing, he had arrived fully armed today, for another, the armor and even more so, the medallion was usually enough. Without actually knowing it - as he had not met a representative of his school for many years - he behaved more divergently to most of his kind. He still wore the badge, the cat with the bared teeth, openly. And yet, no one stopped at the sight of him or gawped while he passed, not a single look filled with trepidation he had gotten used to over the years. He had already met some people, quite a few, even considering that he had been asked to be discreet… this had probably meant that he should not wander around. Adan found it almost insulting that Triss had seriously mentioned _"not bothering anyone“_. Of course, he hadn't thought for a moment about sticking to that. First of all, he had found out where the kitchen was. Two hours later, he already knew where each of the expected guests would be staying (most of them in separate guest houses, which was not interesting in the slightest). That was by no means all he had experienced at that time, and now that it was getting quieter and the guards possibly less attentive, he planned to learn even more.

The elf roamed the corridors, mostly unhindered. The palace resembled a fortress, albeit a lavishly endowed one determined to give off the impression of a harmless place. Yet, there was probably no less innocuous place than this. The Impera Brigade, in their heavy Nilfgaardian armor, stationed nearly everywhere, demonstrated their deterrent strength. That he was able to move freely around here was perhaps not as unusual in the end as one might think… whoever made it into the palace was supposed to be there. It seemed as if every one of them had their purpose, even the numerous guests that always existed in places like these were familiar, expected, and tolerated at the very least. It was not difficult to imagine that somewhere in this grand hustle and bustle, there was someone who knew exactly what was going on.  
  
One didn't simply _walk_ into this place. Those who wanted to enter here had passed through rigorous protective measures. Some of them so subtle that not everyone would notice them. All in all, following his perusal, Adan found the palace highly secured, providing him with a strange satisfaction. However, this also promised him a specific challenge. Such a location always hid something: in every fortress, castle, and palace, there were secrets. Usually, these secrets were hidden very high or very low. The attic was almost always the servants' quarters, a sheltered place where no stranger would stray… hardly anyone would bother climbing all those stairs. And nobody wanted to meet the servants. They had to be there when they were needed; it should not be necessary to follow them. Therefore, it was not unusual to reserve one or the other chamber up there for entirely different purposes. In most cases, the dependence on - or loyalty in others - prevented anyone from caring to find out about these additional purposes.  
  
The cellars were a different matter. Here, there were many more possibilities when it came to hiding things. There were almost always secret passages, but finding them in such a vast place could take a long time. Moreover, the wine cellars were located down there, which usually meant that the entrances were well guarded. In noble houses, the wine was highly prized and accordingly valuable. It was not the wine that Adan was interested in, but what else might be hidden there. It was merely his nature - that, and he enjoyed the thrill of investigation immensely. For this reason, his steps led him briskly down the stairs.  
  
The easiest and usually least noticeable way to the cellars was through the kitchen. It was one of the few reasons why this was nearly always the first place that the feline visited when entering a new location. Another was, of course, that it paid off to get on well with the kitchen staff. However, it wasn't difficult to find out where the entrances to the pantries were located. It was almost as easy to sneak out the tiny, narrow steps - now, in the middle of dinner, the kitchen was a bustling place. Regarding Adan's whole appearance, just his armor should have made him stand out like a sore thumb, yet he knew how to blend in with his surroundings.  
  
At the end of the stairs was a small corridor, dimly lit by a single torch. Several doors leading to rooms lined up along the walls like pearls on a string; cold, semi-dark chambers in which meat was stored, fish was dried, spices were kept, and the like. This was not relevant to Adan. There was nothing of value here - the most expensive spices were usually kept by the cooks in places where a key was required to even get a sniff. Similarly, there were other things that the ordinary kitchen staff should not be able to access. However, these storerooms almost always had a well-kept secret that was only given to a few insiders. Usually, this was access to other parts of the cellar. Sometimes there were practical reasons for this - even from the kitchen, there was the need to obtain wine, such as the less excellent vintages that were needed for cooking. The cellars were usually large and spacious, although sometimes, especially in such large premises, access via the kitchen offered an escape route. Among other things, Adan hoped to find such an exit. Maybe it was paranoia, perhaps it was a special kind of challenge; in any case, these trips were not always about getting to know a place to the smallest detail. For Adan, every security system had a weakness. He didn't intend to take advantage of it, but he knew from experience that any palace run from above tended to get soft at the bottom. And that, in turn, often gave him an advantage. In this particular case, he could not imagine what it might look like because the Emperor maintained a strange expression of his gratitude (which Adan, he believed, had already earned).  
  
In the last of the pantries, the feline finally found what he was searching for. Access to the other, probably lower-lying cellar rooms was found behind a shelf. This was loaded exclusively with light, unbreakable things, which was Adan’s first clue - though one that could easily be overlooked by others. Also, it was the only one that was not connected to the others and could thus easily be pushed aside, another fact that would only be noticed by the eye of an expert. The wall was opened by a trick mechanism triggered by pressing a specific, lightly discolored brick. It took Adan some time to figure it out, that was where things got interesting. Hiding an entrance behind some shelf was one thing, and fake walls were not uncommon. Yet, this was of a different caliber. Someone wanted to make perfectly sure that access to whatever was there could not be found by chance.  
  
The secret door in the wall opened slowly, and Adan slipped through. He was now in a chamber cloaked with deep blackness, insufficiently lit by the faint light from the pantry on the other side. The elf was always prepared: a sip of the potion Cat would allow him a perfect vision in the dark and, unlike a torch or other light source, would make it easier for him to move freely through the darkness without being easily detected.  
  
Adan carefully examined the walls to the sides until he found a new mechanism that could lock the door and reopen it if required. He pressed it again to make the door shut, and only then did he look around. What the feline had thought was a narrow chamber turned out to be a corridor. It was thanks to the potion - and his advanced senses, of course - that he could spot faint tracks on the ground. Only one person seemed to have come through there, and not long ago. The narrow passage led straight ahead for a while, then it turned off - westwards, Adan decided. However, it was getting difficult to tell precisely where he was. The passage seemed endless and much too narrow to be suitable as an escape route for several people. So… what was its real purpose?  
  
It seemed as if Adan was not supposed to find out. Suddenly, after another bend, the passage ended in front of a stone wall that was no different from the other ones of the corridor. He scanned the wall slowly and carefully, although he failed to discover if there was something behind it. Yet, he was certain that something had to be there - no one built a passage for it to lead nowhere. Also, apparent traces were still visible; he believed there had to be a reason why he found nothing. That reason could be magic, so strong that he could not penetrate it. On the other hand, in this case, his medallion would have vibrated. That is why he believed that the end of the corridor was merely a distraction to confuse those who had made it this far. He began scanning the other walls of the passage. There had to be a mechanism somewhere. It could be anywhere, all the way back to the entrance he had come from. That could take forever, and he might be missed upstairs at some point (although he could imagine some people present who were probably quite happy not to see him). Triss might become suspicious at some point, but she would know not to look for him. She had gotten used to him coming and going as he pleased, and, oddly enough, she didn't seem to mind much.

  


Adan groped his way along the wall, carefully tapping each stone, listening for cavities, glancing again at the marks on the floor. They led up to that wall. What was he missing? Was that just another diversionary tactic? Maybe he was less attentive to his surroundings because of these thoughts and high levels of concentration, as his witcher’s medallion began vibrating - a touch too late. A light flashed, suddenly illuminating the hall, and only a heartbeat later, cold steel pressed to his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Sacred worlds".


	5. On through my sorrows, life will go on

**\- 4 -**

**On through my sorrows, life will go on**

"This is the most secure place in the city."  
Emhyr's voice was colder than expected, considering he was adressing his daughter and court sorceress. There was only one person who would have recognized disquiet and concern behind that coldness, but he was not here - which was the reason for those feelings.  
  
"Of course, but you don't think that will stop a vampire," Ciri returned.  
"It is a valid assumption," Triss said reluctantly, "Yet why now… and why at all?"  
"The time could hardly be more favorable when it comes to preventing the wedding," Ciri gloomily considered. "The _why_ should worry us more."  
Emhyr raised a hand. It was a gesture he usually never used in the presence of the two women; it was reserved for all the others who - throught their blabbering - would always fail to get to the point.  
"You're saying a _vampire_ broke in here, attacked Geralt, abducted him - and the only way to do that must have been through that window?"  
He couldn't help sounding sarcastic, because that assumption seemed absurd, even with all the evidence. "Where were the guards?" he continued. "Why didn't they hear anything?"  
"We will find out," Ciri countered, nearly curt. "The most important thing now is that you're right, someone obviously abducted Geralt. Captors always want something, so he’s still alive. It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to get to you through Geralt, Papa."  
  
Since when was his hot-headed daughter the voice of reason? When did it happen that she was the one who drew the right conclusions and gave priority to cool thinking over rash actions? Emhyr wondered if she had any idea how much she was truly ready for her task, even if she still denied it. He would have to tell her sometime; would have to tell her how truly proud of her he was. It would not undo all the years gone past. But perhaps it would bring them closer together if he made it clear that he appreciated what she had learned under Geralt's guidance. This time, the thought of him focused Emhyr strangely, although an underlying restlessness had seized him since entering the rooms. For about half a year, they had been completely untroubled by any problems, apart from the usual quarrels at court and the simple fact that Geralt's work was dangerous. There had been no threats, no attacks, no matter how small. It had been a peaceful time and as harmonious as it could be with two such strong characters. But neither Geralt's thirst for freedom, which drove him to his vineyard or to contracts that hardly paid off for him occasionally, nor Emhyr's sense of duty, which left him little time, had harmed them. Nevertheless, they had spent as much time as possible together, more than they had ever before. Their life during the past months had been a foretaste of the future, of their future together. To wake up every morning, this tangle of seemingly untamable hair on him, to be awakened sometimes only by this look from cat's eyes that had perhaps been gazing over him minutes before he woke.  
  
It was not the first time that Emhyr wondered whether the real danger here was truly him. Whether he, because of his position, was bringing discord into their relationship. Even if it was true that Geralt's profession constantly caused new dangers, Emhyr also lived dangerously. He held power in his hands whose balance could quickly shift to one side if it was not always taken care of - at all times and with great diligence and determination. He had been alone for a very long time. A lot had changed, but not the fact that this blatant imbalance of power was a viper's nest. Emhyr always had to have his eyes and ears everywhere, yet at the same time, he could hardly trust anyone. Everything that had happened, the events from more than half a year ago, and now this... it had always been because of him. Being careless was dangerous. Had he put Geralt in danger just because he didn't close the window? Was it because of Emhyr’s impatience and impetuosity that he had still been here, that he had fallen asleep in the end?  
  
Deep inside he knew that these thoughts were useless, but he could not turn them off. The journey had been long, the reception tedious. They had both been in a mixture of exhaustion and overstimulation that had required a release. They had made love hastily, almost impatiently, knowing that they had little time left; they had not even completely undressed. He could have waited, with everything; he could have released his tension in another way. He could have waited for Geralt instead of going ahead. How many times had he teased him about attracting problems, while in truth, it was often enough Geralt’s sense of justice that got him into trouble? But actually, maybe Emhyr was the one who attracted misfortune, and he couldn't put any good qualities into their careful balance.

  


"We don't know if it was a coincidence that he only caught Geralt when he might have wanted you… or even both of you," said the sorceress, as if she had read his mind. "At least we can assume he didn't go through all this trouble to kill someone. Which probably means he wants something."  
"I have a feeling we already know this vampire," Ciri suddenly interjected. The other two looked at her questioningly.  
"Think about it," she continued. "I suppose it is an understatement to call such a thing bold - to invade such a well-guarded place. We've been through this before."  
"You are thinking of the vampire who entered Aretusa."  
Triss' answer was a statement, not a question. She seemed to have had the same thought herself.  
  
Emhyr shut the window so violently that the women flinched. Subliminal fear had now given way to fierce determination, which soon might turn into rage. Then he was indeed a dangerous adversary, though hardly for a vampire, he was well aware of that.  
"This vampire..." he began by looking at Ciri, although she interrupted him immediately. "We talked about this, remember? I could not kill him."  
"I know that," he replied, almost gently. "I had to listen to some tiresome lessons about vampires, not only from you. But if you are right, what reason could he have? Assire is dead, this time for good. His radical notions of a second Conjunction of the Spheres should have died with the sorceress who promised him this nonsense."  
  
For a moment, everyone remained silent. Each of them hanging on to their own thoughts, recapitulating the past and trying to understand what effects it might have on the present. Emhyr tried almost obsessively to free himself from the feeling that this events had been the first time he had put Geralt in danger. He remembered very well the conversation about guilt they had had back then. He knew that giving in to guilt wasn't helping Geralt right now. There were more important things to do.  
  
"Geralt can take care of himself, Papa. Stop blaming yourself," Ciri said. Was everyone here able to read his mind? "In the meantime, we should think about what we can do."  
"When will the witchers arrive?" Triss asked.  
Emhyr pondered for a moment.  
"I think it will be in a day or two," came the answer.  
"Then we will have three witchers on the spot," the sorceress continued.  
"You think Lambert and Eskel will work with Adan?" Ciri asked, almost mockingly.  
"If it's about Geralt, they _will_ ,“ Triss retorted curtly. "Apart from the witchers, we'll have sorceresses here, too," she continued. "Keira and Yen will come?"  
"Keira will hardly miss such a feast," said Ciri. "As for Yen, I would expect her to arrive late. She will definitely want to make a big entrance."  
Triss rolled her eyes.  
"My goodness, it's not her wedding, after all."  
"That may be the reason," said Emhyr of all people. He had never quite got over his aversion to this particular sorceress, despite Ciri's desire to see her as often as possible and the seething possibility that one day she would be the court sorceress - if Ciri, as his successor, wanted it that way. "Anyway, we still have six days. In the meantime, let us handle the matter as discreetly as possible.“

  


Everyone understood what that meant. For the less tolerant subjects of the empire, the wedding was scandalous enough. If it was discovered just before the actual event that one of the grooms had disappeared, this would only cause chaos and new problems. Emhyr's own safety was at stake here, but such an event could also sensitively shift the balance of power to his disadvantage. The mere assumption that the imperial palace might not be safe would lead to great unrest. The political consequences resulting from the assumption that he might lose influence or even be left unprotected in the end would be devastating.  
"You want everything to go on as before?" Triss asked, nevertheless with certain disbelief in her voice.  
"All preparations continue as planned," Emhyr said with determination. "Right now, it's important for us to figure out what we can do until this vampire comes forward - if that's what he's up to."  
At that moment, the bell rang for the second time.  
"We are all expected at dinner," Triss reminded the other two. "Including Geralt."  
"I'll go and make up an excuse. But, Triss, you should join us soon, and you'd better, too, Papa," said Ciri and turned to the door. "It will be less of a fuss if you show yourself, at least."  
He nodded at her, and Ciri hurried out of the room.  
  
"She's right," Triss said, "We should..."  
Emhyr raised his hand again. Once more this gesture of impatience. Triss had now experienced often enough how the pressure he was undoubtedly under every day manifested itself. His face was hardened, but his gestures made it clear that the time for suggestions was over.  
"Can we find the vampire?" he asked. "It has been done before."  
Triss shook her head.  
"At that time, Regis could find out _who_ the vampire was, not where he was. He knew him, so he knew where to find him."  
"Can that help us now?"  
"As far as I know, Regis is not expected for several days. Even if we could contact him now, it would hardly be possible to speed up his journey."  
"What about magic?"  
"I thought of that, too. A locator spell might help us find Geralt," Triss said thoughtfully. "There are, of course, several shielding options, and we don't know..."  
  
"Did I perhaps say I was interested in what we don't know?" Emhyr interrupted her coolly. "I'd rather try anything to stay one step ahead of that vampire, if that's what it takes. After dinner we'll try, otherwise we'll really attract too much attention."  
Triss gave him a searching glance, yet she preferred not to answer and briefly nodded. They left the bedroom and turned to the front door where Emhyr took one last look at the blood on the floor. Triss followed his gaze yet misunderstood it.  
"We can try the blood," she said, the doorknob already in her hand. "No matter who it belongs to, it will probably lead us to that vampire anyway."  
Emhyr did not think of the vampire at all at that moment, who still seemed to him like an abstract and somehow hidden danger.  
"If we find him, what are our options?" he asked tensely.  
Triss hesitated.  
"It is true that only another higher vampire can kill his own kind. But Ciri managed to wound him severely. He must have been incapacitated for some time. But in the end, even magic is only sufficient to a limited extent. We can't necessarily hope for Regis, either. Higher vampires, they’re… complicated. There's some strange code of honor guiding them, some sort of memory of the world they came from, I suppose. Even after what that vampire did to him, Regis will not attack him lightly."  
"Not even if it involves Geralt?"  
Triss sighed.  
"It's always about Geralt, isn't it?" she replied. "Regis has already risked a lot for him. Even his loyalty may have limits. "  
"I would prefer not to put that to the test," Emhyr said with an undertone that Triss did not appreciate in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Road of no release"


	6. Be aware the storm gets closer

**\- 5 -**

**Be aware the storm gets closer**

It was easy to come up with excuses for why Geralt did not attend the dinner but for Emhyr, it was surprisingly hard to participate. Sitting there, showing a motionless face, cultivating a minimum of polite conversation, pretending to be present in any form at all - that was difficult. Not knowing where Geralt was, what had happened to him, and how he was doing was hard. And maybe it was ridiculous because he knew very well that it was hardly necessary to worry about a witcher, especially not about this one. He may attract danger like a moth to the palace’s flaming lanterns, but Geralt's abilities were beyond question for Emhyr. And it wasn't that he suddenly had begun to doubt his survival instincts or fighting skills. He was aware of all this, and he knew him well. It was the very fact that he not only knew him that made it so hard to just sit there, waiting, doing nothing.  
  
The more their connection had increased, their affection had grown, the more unsettling feelings had developed in him. Injuries were undoubtedly a common occupational hazard for Geralt, and Emhyr had experienced some of them firsthand. But it had been the threat of the, back then unknown, sorceress that had revealed his true feelings to him. At that time, he had not only realized that he loved this stubborn witcher. With this realization, another sense had returned… compassion. But to empathize with another person in such a way meant to suffer with them as well. It meant sharing the pain. Therefore the uncertainty was as hard to take as having to sit here and keep up appearances.  
  
His daughter sat to his right, admirably calm. Even the sorceress, who was also settled beside him, seemed strangely nervous. Her hand clasped the glass - white wine, Emhyr noticed and wondered why such details caught his eye now of all times. She nodded to the lady next to her; an inconspicuous, ordinary beauty, nothing special in a place like this, and momentarily Emhyr couldn't even remember who the woman was. A duchess? The wife of an alderman? Maybe the companion of the sinister-looking, exaggeratedly noble dressed man beside her, who was draped with a frankly obscene amount of jewelry. Emhyr also had no idea who that was or why he seemed to be staring at him, as if he wanted to kill him with glances - totally inappropriate, he made a mental note. Right now, it was utterly unimportant, and yet his brain was focused on useless trifles. How Merigold smiled politely, made any remark, while her hand grasped the glass as if she had to hold on to it. Emhyr felt Cirilla's hand resting on his for a moment. He relaxed his fingers and gave her a look in which an attentive observer would have recognized gratitude.   
  
Still, the meal dragged on almost endlessly. Emhyr had the right to get up at any time and declare the whole thing over, and most probably would not have caused a stir. Aloofness was not only part of his status; for Emhyr, it was an altogether natural trait. And even though he noticed that the sorceress started to drum her fingers slightly on her glass instead of ingesting its contents, he finished the meal after a reasonable time.  
  
Back in his rooms, he noticed with little surprise that Cirilla behaved exactly like Geralt. She was the last to enter the room, taking a last, searching look into the dimly lit corridor, almost contemptuously examining the guards. She closed the door carefully, positioned herself directly in front of it, explored the surroundings with a sharp eye. She even crossed - perhaps unknowingly - her arms in front of her body, such an exact copy of her foster father's gesture that it almost hurt Emhyr.

  


Nothing in the room had changed. The atmosphere of somehow tense disorder was still present as well as the blood on the floor. The sorceress bent down, dipped her finger in the pool, rose again.  
"A locator spell?" Ciri asked curiously.  
Triss nodded.  
"Blood amplifies the effect more than any other object could," she explained. "But, we need a map for that."  
"A map?"  
"With a personal item, a direct connection can be made. If the spell succeeds, I could open a portal immediately, and we would be where Geralt is right now in no time. After our last experience with that, and given that we're facing a higher vampire, that decision would be unfavorable."  
The last time she used such a spell, it threw her straight into a raging river. It had been an act of desperation - using the locator spell in this way was not very common, and not an experience Triss was eager to repeat. Besides, it was pure suicide to face the vampire unprepared; Emhyr knew that too.  
  
"If we use a map, what happens then?" he asked."Assuming the spell works without distractions or interference from other spells," Triss replied, "we will know for sure where to look."  
"And we wait for Lambert and Eskel?" Ciri said perceptively.  
"That would be my plan."  
Emhyr turned to her sharply.  
"We wait?" he spat, but she met his gaze with the serenity of her position. And she did well to do so - she was his court sorceress, she was there to advise him, make suggestions, and develop strategies. She had done just that, so he could not blame her for the fact that her thoughts - unlike his own, regrettably - were a few steps ahead. Triss looked at him almost defiantly, as if she was waiting for him to give final permission to unfold her plan. So he nodded at her, and she went on.  
  
"Two witchers, one sorceress; Ciri, uniting both worlds - that increases our chances. Lambert and Eskel bring enough experience to keep the vampire in place while Ciri and I take care of Geralt. We can't show up somewhere with a whole army if we want to avoid a scandal or even a small war. It might be risky to wait, but the witchers will be here soon, and they are more discreet than any Nilfgaardian knights, that's for sure."  
"Why two witchers?" Ciri asked. Triss nodded.  
"I think Adan should stay here. If this is another diversionary tactic, someone must protect the Emperor."  
"I have a palace full of heavily armed soldiers," Emhyr returned, and his voice sounded almost unnerved. "I'd rather see that witcher helping to free Geralt."  
"And I don't want to take any additional risk," Triss replied calmly. "It would be unwise to underestimate Adan's abilities. He can be just as useful here, and in the end, your safety is paramount."  
  
Emhyr hated that she said that. Those were Geralt's words, consistently, and he didn't want to be reminded of them now. And yet he controlled himself, took a deep breath, and, with some effort, he put himself into his usual state of calm composure.  
"There are maps in my study," he said.   
"I'll get them," Ciri offered immediately, and she was out the door faster than he could remind her that she did not know where to find them. He understood that she was also filled with restlessness and worry. Her desire to do something was only too similar to his.

  


The spell was surprisingly banal, or at least Triss made it look as if it was easy, although it truly was not, at least not in the manners of blood magic. What had to be done, Emhyr felt it was ridiculous, despite everything. It wasn't that he abhorred magic on principle; it had been useful to him often enough himself. But he distrusted it, for a good reason and because of his past alone. It all seemed like charlatanry to him, even though he knew what the sorceress was capable of. Although, he had appointed her as his advisor less for her apparent abilities - and thus, presumably, injuring the honor of Nilfgaard's mages. He had chosen her because Geralt trusted her, and she had proven to be a true and faithful ally when it came to assisting him. Yet, this fuss with incantations, obscure hand movements and the almost obscene use of blood - after all Geralt's blood, which didn't make things easier - displeased him and caused him discomfort.   
  
The drop of blood on Merigold's finger flowed onto the paper of the maps they had spread out on the floor. Ciri had brought everything she had been able to find, including up-to-date maps of the entire Nilfgaardian Empire, and maps of the Northern Kingdoms alongside several others. She did not care that some places on the maps were much too far away for a vampire to reach in a few hours. Ciri was merely furious that someone had dared to attack something - someone - that was important to her, again.   
  
When she looked back on the past years, she was sometimes still amazed herself at what had happened. It was almost incomprehensible. That, after everything, Geralt and Emhyr had found each other was another miracle. It had been hard to imagine, but so many things in her life had taught Ciri that it was a valuable trait to be unbiased. Apparently, life had its own goals, and love even more so. Many things had turned out differently than she had once thought. She had stopped dividing it into categories like good or bad. She decided on being happy with what they had and lost nothing by it; on the contrary… she learned to understand her father better. It wasn't always easy, and sometimes she was truly amazed at how easy it had been for Geralt to look behind this sometimes absurdly arrogant and cold facade. Honestly, she had to admit that the other way around was probably the same; after all, Geralt had his pitfalls, too. Even though she and Emhyr still rubbed up against each other at times, she couldn't deny that she had inherited some traits from him. What she had from Geralt was acquired, partly certainly copied - the one or other gesture, thinking. Moreover, she was foresighted, planning-minded; her sharp mind was a gift of her father. But also her hot-headedness and impatience probably came from him.  
  
That was why she watched, with the same impatience, as the drop of blood spread out on the parchment and seemed to liquefy. It thinned, splitting into several narrow rivulets, all of which ran in apparent chaos across the main map, a detailed view of Nilfgaard and its surroundings. But while most of these thin, red stripes stopped somewhere and trickled away, one ran across the paper in concentric spirals. "We've got him," Triss said tensely, and they all bent over the map more deeply, as if they could conjure it up to reveal its secret faster.

  


It seemed to take an eternity, but finally, the blood stopped its way across the map.  
"Impossible," Emhyr hissed.   
Triss shook her head harshly, and Ciri stared at the map, disbelieving.   
"Are you truly sure this worked?" she whispered to Triss.   
For that blood, Geralt’s blood, marked a place known and more or less familiar to each of them… the Imperial Palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Mirror, Mirror".


	7. So out of nowhere it will rise

**\- 6 -**

**So out of nowhere it will rise**

"What are you doing here?“  
The low rumble behind him seemed to belong to an older man, whose blade sat in the crook of Adan’s neck… a dagger. Although he could only see it out of the corner of his eye, he deduced from the way the man was holding the weapon that he was a little shorter than himself, though no clear advantage was seen for Adan. He weighed his options. He could probably overpower the man behind him relatively quickly. If this man had wanted to kill him, he must have had the opportunity long ago.  
  
Yet… Adan was curious - quite an annoying quality, that this particular feline had not necessarily needed to be taught. Some might call it a character flaw, especially in an elf. He did not think much about it; at that moment he was occupied with other things, namely the man with the dagger to his neck. Where had he come from, and how had he managed to sneak up on him like that?  
  
"I'm just looking around," he answered lightly.  
"Someone like you doesn't just _look around._ "  
Resting the tip of the blade carefully against the elf's neck, the other man circled him with surprising agility. As he now stood in front of him, it became clear that Adan's assumptions had been entirely correct. Before him, the man had grey hair on his temples, but his weather-beaten face did not reveal his age. He was shorter than Adan but very wiry; he seemed agile and skilled with a blade.  
"Secret Service?" Adan inquired in a calm voice.  
"What?" asked the other, for a second, clearly surprised.  
Adan was careful to keep his gestures sparse as he continued speaking - he didn't want to give the man any reason to increase the pressure of the blade on his neck.  
"That dagger is a Nilfgaardian weapon if I recognize correctly," he replied. "The fact that the passage was so well concealed, and apparently leads nowhere. The way you were moving. I am only trying to draw conclusions."  
"Apparently not quite the right ones," the man replied with a motionless face. "And I ask again: What are you doing here?"  
  
"Assassin then?" the witcher continued unmoved.  
The pressure of the blade increased. "You may find out more quickly than you like. There will be no more chances to answer me."  
The completely emotionless voice was a clear warning that Adan understood very well. He raised his arms, very slowly, carefully, presenting the open palms of his hands as if he was dealing with an animal to which he showed an unprotected neck. Only with the difference that this animal already had its teeth bared and pressed to skin.  
  
"I would say this place has passed the security test," Adan replied. It was a risky answer, but obviously, one that aroused the curiosity of his counterpart. Or maybe it lowered his suspicion a bit, although the feline didn't truly believe that.  
"You are one of the witchers who arrived today? Since you don't look like the groom to me, I assume that you belong to the entourage," said the man and finally lowered the dagger.  
"What do you mean, I don't _look like the groom_. Am I not the Emperor's type or what?"  
Adan's lips curled into a smug grin, but actually it was more the imitation of a smile - utterly humorless, and his ridiculous little joke did not catch on. It still was a confusing concept to him, he didn’t even know why. Sometimes he just smiled whenever he thought it was expected. The man before him was not so easily fooled by that, on the contrary he remained unimpressed.  
  
"I know very well what Geralt of Rivia looks like," he remarked.  
"Well, I suppose you know about a lot of things. So, yes, I am a witcher, the name is Adan, delighted."  
"Curious Cat, more like," muttered the other, still holding the dagger in his hand and pointing to the medallion that hung around Adan's neck.  
"That's fine with me," Adan replied cautiously. "Speaking of introductions..."  
"You don't need to know my name," the man with the dagger interrupted him.  
"Well then…" the witcher said, "My second guess was correct? Assassins at the Imperial Palace, a delightful surprise."  
"I don't quite see what's so delightful about it."  
He finally put the dagger away with an easy spin of his wrist and observed Adan disparagingly.  
"You are not the first witcher here, but you are the first who has stuck his nose thus deeply into things that are none of his business."  
"Maybe so," Adan replied. "However, it makes me wonder why the Emperor should need an assassin's services right now."  
"What do you mean, right now?"  
Adan crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave the assassin an almost challenging look. "The Impera Brigade has an excellent reputation. Well, probably not to those it treads on. The palace is extremely well guarded. And just in case someone should still be stupid enough to attack the Emperor… he currently has two witchers, a sorceress and his daughter at his side. She somehow doesn't fit into any category, but is an opponent not to be underestimated."  
The assassin nodded towards the feline. It was hard to tell whether this was meant as a token of appreciation or a confirmation of the witcher's words.  
"In a short while," Adan continued, watching the other man's reactions closely, "More witchers will arrive, more sorceresses. That the Emperor will be safe should be obvious. Thus, one of the two reasons why an assassin might take action no longer applies."  
  
The so addressed smiled narrowly, an amused sparkle in his eyes.  
"And these reasons are?" he asked.  
Adan was not prone to sarcasm. He rarely used it; it was a concept he found challenging to understand. The undertone in the other's voice seemed to escape him, he continued unmoved, "Even a hired assassin can be a valuable bodyguard, if necessary. Thanks to his discretion and special talents, he can eliminate threats before they even become a threat. But in this case, I don't think that will be necessary."  
"Is that so?" muttered the assassin. He sounded slightly amused, but if so, it did not reach his eyes, which sparkled coldly at the feline. "What if the Emperor trusts the assassin more than the witchers and sorceresses, and therefore relies more on his protection?"  
  
Adan slowly shook his head.  
"Most unlikely. I suspect you can count on one hand the number of people he really trusts, and it would only take two fingers."  
The assassin made a sound that was possibly a disparaging snort.  
"What is the second reason?" he then asked.  
"Ah, yes," Adan responded almost cheerfully. "Now, it gets interesting. What if the assassin takes advantage of the hubbub of wedding preparations and carries out the Emperor's order? Perhaps the best opportunity to get rid of an annoying adversary, a rebellious duke maybe..."  
Adan's eyes widened as the man in front of him suddenly started to laugh.  
  
"That would be a sad thing to do during a wedding, wouldn't it, Cat? The assumption may not be fundamentally false, but still, you are wrong. I'll give you a hint."  
The assassin suddenly took a step forward. He got very close to Adan, who was surprised at the speed of the man. Measured in human years, he must have passed his prime. He stared deep into the witcher's dark eyes as if he wanted to find out what was behind them. His voice was soft but evident - and his words a plain warning.  
"Listen. If I hadn't wanted you to find me here, you would never have found even a trace of me. Clear?"  
  
Adan frowned. "I don't want this to be a pissing contest, but I don't think it's wise to mess with a witcher." His voice had also taken on a threatening tinge, but the other, again, remained utterly unimpressed.  
"By the time you have pulled the knife, which you are not even allowed to have with you, mine is already in your belly," he countered. "So, just be quiet and listen."  
Surprisingly, he withdrew again. In one flowing movement, covered by the rest of his body, he swiped his hand at a spot on the walls that Adan had already examined unsuccessfully. The wall opened silently to a narrow door that swung aside, revealing deep blackness behind it.  
"Can you see in the dark?"  
"For the moment I can," Adan replied reluctantly, not sure what to expect.  
"A real cat, huh? Then come."  
As the other one stepped into the darkness without any tools, the witcher could not resist asking, "What about you?"  
"I know the way in my sleep," replied the assassin, and then impatiently added, "Come now, we don't have all night."  
"Where are we going?" Adan asked as he hesitantly laid a hand on the newly created entrance and peered into the darkness behind it. The assassin had already been swallowed by the blackness. Still, to Adan, he was recognizable as a bright, almost eerie outline.

  


"If you want answers, follow me instead of asking more questions."  
With these words, the man moved forward, deeper into the darkness, which apparently contained another passage. Adan looked around suspiciously one last time - but if he secretly hoped that someone would even guess where he was right now, that hope was in vain. Slowly he followed the assassin into blackness and uncertainty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "And the story ends".


	8. Through the shapeless land I walk alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which we finally encounter Geralt, but something is not right here ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this one: ["Comatose"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLHtqFxy8C0) by Ayreon.
> 
> Chapter title is a line from "Punishment divine".

**\- 7 -**

**Through the shapeless land I walk alone**

_\- Somewhere in Nilfgaard, 6 days to the imperial wedding -_

They sat together, their hands interlocked, and looked down on the city. The evening sun illuminated the roofs, which threw back the golden glow a hundred times. Their legs dangled above a precipice so deep that it was impossible to see what was there below them there. They sat at the edge of this chasm, and for a moment, it seemed to Geralt as if it was only the hand clasped to his that prevented him from falling forwards and into the void.  
  
He ignored the thought, as well as the abyss.  
"It truly is as beautiful as you said it was," he remarked.  
"Of course," Emhyr replied casually.  
Geralt looked at him. A light wind passed through Emhyr's dark hair, disheveling it slightly. How strange that the small, soft curls were visible, which were usually only seen in the early morning hours. Then Emhyr soon treated them meticulously with a comb, driving them in line like stubborn soldiers until they finally disappeared altogether. They were an even rarer sight than the smile that appeared on his face. Emhyr didn't smile often, and when he did, it might have been meant scornfully, sometimes even victoriously. However, this was a pure, genuine smile, born of joy and reserved for special occasions.  
  
"What is it?" Emhyr asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"  
"I don't know," Geralt replied truthfully. "Maybe I just like what I see."  
The soft laughter that could be heard now reached Emhyr's eyes. It was a scarce gift. Geralt had no idea what he had earned it with or why right now, but he enjoyed it. He just kept looking at him. This was the man he would marry soon. It was easy to ignore everything else.  
  
Geralt looked down, avoiding the view into the abyss; he just looked at their hands holding each other. Amazement filled him when he noticed the rings. He wore a narrow, silver ring on his right hand, Emhyr wore the matching counterpart on his left. Something about that didn't seem right to him, but he didn't want to think of it. He looked at them for a while until he noticed that his own ring had a small engraving: a flame. He couldn't see Emhyr's ring very clearly, but he could have sworn that a finely chiseled wolf would be found on it. Geralt didn't remember these rings, or even that they talked about such engravings. But strangely enough, he liked them. He liked the thought that each of them carried a very private part of the other with him. Just why were they wearing them already? The thought escaped him quickly.  
  
He felt strange: light and heavy simultaneously, as though he was not quite there. Or rather, as if he shouldn't be there. But then again, what could be more important than being there right then and holding this hand? He looked behind him and was greeted with blackness. When he turned around again, he noticed that the sunlight had nearly disappeared, making way for a grey-blue twilight. It had happened so quickly. Emhyr's face now lay in shadow, the fading light intensifying his sharp features. _Nilfgaard’s sun,_ Geralt thought. _Its sun, and my flame._  
  
"Whatever you do," Emhyr now said, and he looked at him earnestly, "whatever you do, don't jump." Geralt laughed, but even in his ears, the tone sounded fake.  
"Why should I _jump?_ "  
"I must go now," Emhyr replied. "Just stay here."  
"Where are you going?" Geralt asked confusedly. Emhyr loosened his hand, and Geralt tried to grab it, tried to hold on to it, but he felt as if he was reaching through mist.  
"Maybe you will hurt, maybe you will be lonely," said Emhyr. "But if you jump, it will be too late."  
"Too late for what? What are you talking about?"  
Geralt was overtaken by a strange feeling. Was it fear? Concern? A mixture of both? He looked down involuntarily. It hardly seemed possible, but the abyss seemed even darker than it had been. When he looked up again, the twilight had lost all colors except for a dull gray. He felt cold. Emhyr was gone. He called out to him, but his voice echoed only in emptiness and darkness.  
  
Geralt tried to stand up; he suddenly wanted nothing more than to get away from this strange abyss. Yet, his arms didn't have the strength to lift him up, and his legs felt numb. So, he sat there, suddenly filled with strange tranquility, and watched the light fade further and further. Something dripped on his hand, and he looked up to where he thought the sky was, although everything was pure black now. But it wasn't raining. He stared at his hand, and although it was so dark, a drop of blood stood out clearly and bright red from his skin. Was he bleeding? Why? One drop became two, but he could not raise his hand to wipe them away. So he continued to sit in the darkness and allowed for it to devour him. Geralt tried to penetrate the increasing blackness with his senses; he almost felt as if he heard voices. But they were far away, and the more the night increased, the further away they became.

  


"Why is the witcher still unconscious?"  
The voice that asked this belonged to a tall, slim man with delicate, almost impudently handsome features. His light, curly hair was unusually long, and he wore it tied at the back of his head. The clothes he wore betrayed a specific style despite their simplicity and muted colors. Still, they formed a strange contrast to his extravagant and striking hairstyle.  
  
The figure next to him was not interested in the other man's appearance. It would also have been strange if he had wondered about things like that, for he himself was an extraordinary being. The other man was disturbed by his natural appearance, which at first had slightly surprised him, considering his own nature. But for his sake - and because the other paid him - he stood beside the vampire as an ordinary peasant, an unobtrusive, simple figure, unspecified.  
  
"I have no clue. It's not my specialty. Maybe you just shouldn't have smashed something into his skull in the first place," the doppler replied, perhaps a bit too cheeky, because the vampire gave him a sharp look.  
"It was not intended that he should fight back," the vampire returned stiffly.  
"There should not have been a fight at all," the doppler growled. "This was never mentioned. If your telepathic knickknack on a witcher doesn't work as expected, that's your problem. But if he doesn't wake up at all, what of payment?"  
  
The vampire took one last look at the witcher lying at his feet, and it seemed as if he wondered if he wasn't faking his unconsciousness. He kicked him in the stomach, a painful spot; but the man did not move. The blood in his hair and on his face was already dried, the wound at his temple had stopped bleeding. The witcher had bled like a pig since the vampire had hit him in a dangerous spot. An ordinary human might not have survived the blow. How long did it take a witcher to recover from that? He turned back to the doppler. The shape he had chosen was a whole head smaller than the vampire, and now seemed to shrink even more.  
  
The vampire smiled briefly, his fangs flashing. Although the doppler knew that this was meant to be a pure threatening gesture, it served its purpose.  
"Your payment," he said slowly, "will be made once you have fulfilled your purpose. It is in your own interest to fulfill that purpose _well_. Eventually, the witcher will come around, and you better be ready for that moment."  
The doppler gulped.  
"I'll hold up my end of the bargain."  
"Then, my dear friend, you may hope I live up to mine.“  
  
The doppler didn't like the way the vampire stressed the word friend. Still less did he like the prospect of his payment to be dependent on hope. But it was too late to worry about that now. He should never have gotten involved with a vampire in the first place. _"You're a fool, Frids,“_ he scolded himself in his thoughts. But self-reproach would not help now, only a sharp mind. He only feared that the vampire was several centuries ahead of him in this.


	9. Still sense there’s evil on its way

**\- 8 -**

**Still sense there’s evil on its way**

The journey through the dark passage appeared endless. It went deeper down, then up again; upstairs, downstairs, sometimes through other hidden entrances. Even Adan was at some point completely disoriented, this sort of secrecy seemed almost ridiculous. The effects of the potion Adan hat taken would soon wear off, he wondered how this human continued moving so surely in the darkness.  
  
Just as Adan's eyes lost their supernatural vision and he was already reaching out to hold on to the wall of the narrow corridor, the assassin opened another previously invisible door. The tiny streak of light that could now be seen was merely more than a navy blue surrounding the heavy darkness, just enough to avoid stumbling as Adan crossed the threshold with certainty. Behind the door was a tower room with high arched windows on two sides. The witcher could not remember that on arrival he had noticed anything like that about the building. It might have been on one of the rear extremities of the palace, perhaps even on an outbuilding.  
  
Befitting his nature, Adan’s gaze darted around quickly but attentively. Next to the entrance door, which had silently closed again in the meantime, there was another door on the right wall. On the left side was a high bookshelf, but it was too dark to see individual titles. Between the windows sat a plain wooden table, in front of which stood an equally simple chair. The few parchments set atop the table were almost ghostly in order - thick paper carefully rolled up and closed with ribbons. Otherwise, all that was left was a barrel of ink and a quill and a thick, half-consumed candle on a brass stand.  
  
Moreover, the room was empty, but the absence of too much dust was a clear sign that it was used regularly. The assassin briefly rummaged in a pocket of his dark robe, then lit the candle on the table and sat down on its edge. The little light that now illuminated the room cast strange, flickering shadows on the man's face.  
"I had somehow expected something else," Adan spoke into the stillness, for the Assassin had remained in silence since they entered the turret room. Since he didn't answer, the witcher continued, "A collection of weapons perhaps..."  
Now the other one interrupted him, "You sure you’re not paid to talk? Because you have a very big mouth." It was a simple statement, uttered with no undertone, but Adan was slightly taken aback.  
"I'm not paid to be here at all," was all he could come up with.  
"Then why are you even here?"  
Adan remained silent at this, surprisingly perplexed.  
"Anyway, I do not intend to present a collection of my secrets to a witcher," the assassin continued.  
"If that is so, then why am I here, indeed?" Adan replied, knowing full well that the other man's words had been meant differently.  
  
"Listen, Curios Cat," the assassin went on, "what I am about to tell you... shall we say…" He hummed in thought for a moment, "Should I learn that these words find their way out of this room, the scar on your neck may deepen." He gestured briefly in Adan's direction. "Call me Birke," the assassin continued, and Adan couldn't resist throwing in: "That's elder speech."  
"Maybe because I want you to understand the name," the assassin replied cryptically. "And if you interrupt me again, I'll reconsider. Listen now."  
Adan raised his hands appeasingly and remained silent.

  


"Anyway, the name doesn't come out of nowhere. Birch trees grow fast and become quite old, and that seems quite appropriate for me, too," the man named Birke continued. "I have been here so long that I still remember some of the trees in the court garden as seedlings. Maybe you've already guessed, you don't seem stupid to me; I am the last assassin at the imperial court. Sometimes I don't know if the Emperor himself still remembers me. There's no doubt about my loyalty, though. The ruler rules, the servant serves, whatever the form."  
All these words were uttered without any external emotion, without a tone of bitterness or any other feeling. They seemed the mere statement of a man whose wisdom of years was exceeded only by his experience.  
He was silent for a moment, and Adan said softly, thoughtfully, "So the threat comes from within?"  
The assassin nodded, almost acknowledging.  
"I told you before, you're not stupid. You never would've gotten this far, and I never would've... It's almost true. I think the mages are planning something."  
  
"Mages?" Adan asked, stunned. The assassin looked at him attentively.  
"How much do you know about Nilfgaard?"  
Adan became uncomfortable for some reason, and began his signature stride up and down the tight space. It helped him think.  
"Not as much as I might like," he began. "The army is almost impeccable, the troop strength is second to none. Famous - or rather notorious - for the operational efficiency of its commanders. Naturally, not much is known about Imperial Military Intelligence, at least not much more than what is said about Vattier de Rideaux. Most of it stems from rumour, but their stealth capabilities are legendary."  
  
He paused and looked at Birke as if to assess whether this was what he wanted to hear. The assassin was still leaning against the table, completely relaxed - why wouldn't he be, this was his territory, and he seemed to have concluded long ago that the witcher was no threat. Since he didn't say anything, Adan continued, "As for the mages, Nilfgaard has its own academies, and as long as the Emperor resides here, he will recruit his mages from there. The further north he advanced, the more this changed. His last court sorceress came from Aretusa and made sure he formed some sort of permanent connection with this place."  
"With more or less resistance?" Birke threw in and Adan shrugged in reply.  
"That's to be expected. But Aretusa has since closed off, after the last headmistress, Margarita Laux-Antilles, disappeared more than half a year ago. The Emperor has officially declared Triss Merigold his new court sorceress. It can be assumed that the Nilfgaardian mages didn't like that very much. It is well known that the Emperor was never a great friend of sorceresses and sorcerers in general. But this may have actually upset them."  
  
"I'd say that's the understatement of the year," Birke calmly explained. "For many Nilfgaardians - and you must understand that they are a very unique people - the Emperor has made strange decisions in recent years," he continued. "Surely, his military advances are undisputed. But already the decision to waste time and resources on finding his daughter met with incomprehension. Those who thought she was irretrievably dead were, of course, bound to be proven wrong. But in the end, hardly anyone understood why he had been so obsessed with finding her - this surely had something to do with the fact that many a person in the empire had thought there was a prospect of the throne, should the Emperor become weaker."  
Adan nodded thoughtfully at these words. It was an easily imaginable scenario. But Birke was not finished yet.  
  
"It was also the beginning of another problem. That's when the famous witcher made his first appearance, and look what that has led to - in a few days, probably the most scandalous wedding Nilfgaard has ever seen."  
"Some say it will be the biggest Nilfgaard has ever seen," the feline replied. "Didn't know people were so prejudiced here." Almost against his will, his voice had taken on a sharper sound.  
"They are not," returned the assassin calmly. "That the Emperor is marrying a man is the least of his problems. That it's a witcher, that's more like it."  
Adan let out one of his laughs, which usually made people uncomfortable around him. This did not impress the assassin.  
"Yes, truly scandalous," Adan said sarcastically. "Who would ever have heard of married witchers?"  
"I have heard of one or two," Birke replied unexpectedly. "But this ain't about the job, son." Adan raised his eyebrows but dispensed with the obvious reference to the fact that he was certainly older than the man before him.  
  
"Think about it," Birke continued. "The Emperor gains nothing through this marriage. Rulers rarely marry for love. They join forces with influence and gain even more power. The cousins of the King of Cidaris, who tragically died a few months ago, were already chomping at the bits when the Emperor went there for negotiations."  
"Well, that was a bit of a fuck-up," mumbled Adan.  
"Quite," the assassin admitted. "Plus the matter of the court sorceress, still considered a traitor by some…"  
"Well, to sum it up," Adan interrupted him - it earned him a sharp look from the assassin. He didn't pay attention and continued, "There are, in short, some people in the empire who neither want the Emperor to marry a witcher, nor to have Triss as his personal advisor and court sorceress."  
Birke was silent for a moment, then replied quietly, "Pay attention to what you say. I have a feeling you're already in deeper than you want to be.“

Adan was startled. "Yes, it's possible that I take it personally," he said nearly defiantly. "After all, we have a certain professional curiosity… as witchers."  
"That's hardly what this is all about," Birke said, amusedly. "Listen here, I don't care whose bed you get into or what you try to do to get this Rivian's attention."  
"He's not from Rivia at all," growled Adan. "And I'm not trying to..."  
"Shut up," the assassin raised his voice, a first - it did not miss its effect. Adan closed his mouth and blanched confusedly for a moment.  
"As I told you before, I am loyal to the empire and intend to stay that way," Birke then continued in a calmer tone. "In the end, I would prefer everything stay as it is, and that is with Emhyr var Emreis as ruler."  
"Fine, and I suppose this promises the greatest benefit to you too," Adan replied. "But where does the idea even come from, that the mages are _planning something_?“  
The assassin pulled a face. "In the end, you lack a deeper understanding of the palace structure and what goes on in the capital," he said. "Just this much: there are signs that some of the mages do not want to leave it at that, criticizing the emperor behind the backs of council members. However, there is no direct evidence. The only striking fact is that Enrik de Groot is among the guests. He was not invited, but the current head of the Imperial Magical Academy. But de Groot could credibly assure that he had swapped places with the indisposed headmaster. Intelligence has not yet verified this information, but it seems reliable. The headmaster, a man named var Eyck, made it look as if he was ill, which is nonsense, of course. Everyone is supposed to believe that he is so dissatisfied with the Emperor's decisions that he does not appear at the wedding in protest, while at the same time offering a reasonably plausible excuse. De Groot is his deputy, and as such, a valid alternative, of course."  
  
Adan let these words sink in and pondered for a while, apparently looking at the books on the only shelf in the room. They were innocuous works that revealed nothing about the assassin. If someone had stumbled across this room by chance - which was hardly imaginable anyway - he would have learned nothing at all from the whole room, and certainly not from books like _"Gnomish Prankings“_.  
"It certainly sounds suspicious," he said after a while. "However, without credible evidence, it is only a very vague suspicion. Even sorcerers can have their stomachs bothered. Or an experiment goes wrong."  
"Or they are allergic to magic and can't use potions," Birke said. To Adan it sounded almost like a teasing, but he didn't go for it. It only proved that the assassin was well-informed, but that was part of his job.  
"Fine, but what am I of all people supposed to do about it now?" the feline finally asked.  
  
Birke pushed himself off the desk and took a step towards the witcher. He almost looked impatient as he pointed his finger at him and replied, "I think you underestimate your influence."  
Adan laughed, which this time sounded quite amused.  
"Influence?"  
"Well, let's call it something else then," said the assassin and made another gesture. "The fact is, Intelligence is not listening to my concerns."  
  
It wasn't hard to imagine. Assassins were, in a sense, unwelcome at any court where they existed. No one doubted their worth when it came to certain tasks, but generally, no one wanted to be reminded that they existed at all. Killing as part of a war strategy was usually reserved for soldiers and, in this case, was never named assassination. But the nature of assassins was one of cunning and insidiousness - qualities that anyone at court would consider necessary when fighting an enemy. And yet these things were considered as something that had to be done behind closed doors. It was better if no one knew about it, and therefore better if no one knew who was carrying out such tasks. It was one thing to say, "Oh my, that ambassador passed following a meal of poisoned pheasant!" and another to admit that one was sure of the path which that poison took to reach its final destination, a grand lord’s belly.  
"Well, they probably won't believe me either," said the witcher.  
"Of course not," Birke sniffed and looked at Adan as if the feline had suggested something indecent. "But unlike me, you can participate in many of the events on the agenda and move relatively freely among the other guests," the assassin continued. "It is not difficult, what I am asking of you. Listen and look around. Get close to the mage. Use your connection to this sorceress if necessary. Find out what he is planning."  
Adan nodded.  
"You fear a scandal at the wedding?"  
"A scandal is not our problem. An assassination attempt is."  
  
The feline wrinkled his nose - it was his imitation of a human gesture of contempt, he decidedly hadn’t quite succeeded yet.  
"There are four witchers and several sorceresses at this wedding," he interjected.  
"An even better reason to get rid of them all at once."  
It almost sounded paranoid, but Adan was unable to ignore the truth to it.  
"There's one more person you can try to convince," Birke said. "You can warn the Emperor of my concerns."  
"What?"  
Adan stared at the assassin in disbelief, who made an impatient gesture.  
"I don't expect you to do that yourself. Try the other witcher, the Rivian."  
"He is not... I don't know if he will listen to me," the feline responded skeptically.  
"Look, you have several options in this game, unlike me," Birke repeated. "You're almost as close to the Emperor as his own chamberlain."  
"That's certainly not true, the guy's glued to the Emperor like a leech."  
"Never mind, you understand what it's about," the assassin said insistently. Adan nodded slowly.  
"Oh, and before you ask what's in it for you," Birke added, "let me tell you: your own life, after all. Because if this wedding goes wrong the way I've outlined it will be grim for all non-Nilfgaardians at court. And I assure you, someone with nice pointy ears like you will be one of the first on the list of new public enemies."  
It was a vision only too well imaginable, and yet nearly sounded like a threat aimed at one Curios Cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Nephilim". 
> 
> I confess: the only reason there is an assassin here is because I did a re-read of the Farseer books at the time I wrote this. If you don't know them, check them out immediately! :)


	10. Hence from this moment we're doomed

**\- 9 -**

**Hence from this moment we’re doomed**

_\- Imperial Palace, 5 days to the imperial wedding -_

"This cannot be," Ciri said. "That vampire isn't holding Geralt right under our noses.“  
"Can we narrow this down any further?" Emhyr asked tensely. "We can't possibly search everything on the palace grounds without attracting the wrong kinds of attention."  
"Maybe it's not Geralt's blood, maybe there's something wrong with the spell," Triss mused, but her words showed that she didn't believe in it herself.  
"This is nonsense," Ciri hissed and pointed to the map, which now showed red, nearly putrid stripes soaked with blood. "A wicked prank, perhaps, or a trap. Can you narrow the trail?"  
"No, it won't work."  
For a moment, everyone looked at each other grimly, Emhyr seemed to be foaming with rage, even Ciri made the impression that she was ready to smash something.  
  
"With any luck, Lambert and Eskel will arrive tomorrow," Triss said slowly. "If Geralt is still here, they might find him."  
"What shall we do in the meantime?" Ciri asked heatedly. "Shall we sit around here and wait? What if they don't arrive tomorrow?"  
It was Emhyr, of all people, who put a hand on her shoulder, reassuring his daughter. "We will wait," he said calmly. "There's nothing else we can do. Either that vampire will come forward with his demands soon, or the witchers will arrive in time, and we may regain an upper hand."  
  
Ciri knew he was right, although she was not glad.  
"How can you just say that?" she snapped. "You want to lie down in that bed there," she said with a broad gesture of her hand towards the sleeping chamber, "And just go to sleep without knowing where he is or what that vampire is doing to him?"  
"Ciri," Triss hissed at her, but Emhyr made a small, albeit distinct, gesture. "No one says it's easy," he replied.  
"No, it's never easy," she replied, almost screaming. "You just subordinate everything to politics and expect us to swallow it. Twice you put Geralt in danger! I hacked that vampire to pieces for you, and he came back, and all you tell me is we should _wait_?“  
  
Triss gasped. "Ciri," she started again, but the latter just turned and stormed angrily out of the room. "Won't she ever grow up?" Triss muttered angrily. Then she turned to Emhyr, who stood motionless, suddenly looking tired.  
"What if she's right?" he asked in a low voice.  
"About what?"  
Emhyr glanced at her as if he only now realized she was still in the room. Then he said, "She'll calm down. We'll speak again in the morning."  
"But…" the sorceress began, just before she caught his gaze. She nodded and strode to the door. Just before she did, she stopped, turned again, and said, "She's _not_ right, you know." She left open precisely what she meant by that and exited the chambers.  
  
Emhyr was left with nothing but to turn out the lights, go into the bedroom and do what Ciri had believed would be easy… decidedly, it was not. He lay down, still fully dressed, on the spot where a mark had been some time ago, a reminder that Geralt had been lying there. Sleep, he did not.

Discipline and years of training ensured in the morning that he did not make the impression he had a sleepless night, and the wedding preparations as well as the usual political business provided activity. Still, it stung him every time he had to decide things that had anything to do with the wedding, and after a short time he delegated such tasks to his daughter. They dispensed with the grand discussion and, as expected, she didn't apologize - but again, she was very similar to Geralt, she found other ways to express herself. In the end, that she took on these tasks from him had not only to do with the fact that she absolutely wanted to keep herself busy so as not to have to think too much.  
  
Triss, on the other hand, searched in vain for Adan in the morning, who, contrary to his other habits, had not appeared in her rooms at night. She wondered briefly whether the palace security was too much of a hurdle, and immediately rejected that idea, as if it had offended her. As far as it was concerned, the elf had already proved to be extremely inventive. Although Vizima was truly no match for the palace of Nilfgaard, Triss believed that the witcher would come up with something. It was, of course, nothing official between the two of them - although they both cared little about formalities and etiquette in this respect. And maybe, Triss thought to herself, her fondness for witchers in general and for this one in peculiar was also a strange quirk. Alas, it was a whim that promised… well… fun. Triss had sworn to herself that she would never get involved with big feelings again. Nevertheless, slight concern began to creep into the amazement about Adan's absence. If one kidnapped witcher became two, they had a much bigger problem.  
  
The morning passed in an atmosphere of tense expectation and seamlessly flowed into noon; interrupted only by countless small tasks, meals, seemingly urgent talks and meetings with one or the other important person - or those who considered themselves important. The more hours passed, the more impatient Emhyr became, and the harder it was to hide this. Although there were no official occasions where Geralt's presence was expected, the fact that he did not appear for breakfast or lunch was conspicuous. Emhyr was inventive in his excuses, but it was to be feared that people began to talk. It might have seemed that they had quarreled, or even worse, that one of the future spouses had decided otherwise so close to the wedding. Emhyr began pondering about how such rumors could be prevented.  
  
The inner tension caused him headaches, triggered by his seemingly permanently locked jaw. Disgruntled, he insisted on postponing further items on the agenda; he decided upon fresh air. There was one place, here, as in Vizima - and as, in fact, in every place where he was, if he found the time - that would give him some peace of mind. He turned automatically towards the horse stables, followed by his anything but invisible shadows, the guards, who kept their distance at the very least.  
  
There were very few who knew this side of him; even fewer to whom he would show it more regularly. It may have not been too bad if rumours had spread that the ruler of the largest empire of the Continent held quite a weakness for horses. It was a tolerable weakness. Still - it was one of the few things he had all to himself.  
He instructed the guards to wait nearby and not to follow him further. The stables were quiet, one of the quietest places in this whole damn madhouse. There was only the occasional snorting of the horses and the soft rustling of straw. The sounds of the palace were far away down here, and even the smell seemed much more pleasant to Emhyr than the clouds of perfume of some of the ladies he inevitably had to meet upstairs. Besides some other animals, which probably belonged to higher ranking guests, Roach was also accommodated here. The mare nestled her large head in his hand as he caressed her - Geralt had already complained that Emhyr had spoiled her. He stroked her neck and whispered reassuring things that he himself would have liked to hear either.  
  
His eyes fell on another horse, and for a moment his heartbeat accelerated. He knew it: the black horse had been young and impetuous when he got it. Emhyr had had no use for it, which he himself had thought was quite a shame. And it had been the only thing a certain witcher had asked for as a reward for his help. Emhyr crossed the stable after petting Roach once more and found the stable master kneeling beside the animal while he was inspecting its fetlock joints.  
  
Of the countless servants in the palace, the stable master was the only one whom Emhyr had stopped bowing at their first encounter. Now the man looked up and said, surprised to see him: "Your Majesty. I did not know you were here. An unusually beautiful animal, isn't it?"  
Emhyr nodded and replied, "It is. Where is the owner?"  
The stable master stood up, tapped his hands on his trousers and said, "Ah, a rather rude fellow, but as I could tell he was good to his horse. Uh, I think he and the other fella went that way." He pointed to the second entrance. Emhyr nodded at him and left the stables quickly. And there in the small courtyard, just before the entrance to the gardens, they stood: the eagerly awaited witchers. They blinked into the sun, their baggage distributed around them, and glanced at the palace from the outside.

The yard was empty, and the Nilfgaardians were accustomed to unusual figures. Still, the arrival of two more witchers might have astonished some of them. Moreover, the two were quite remarkable, even though the court was used to the sight of armor and swords of all kinds. Emhyr already knew one of them: black leather, receding hairline, prominent nose and an always grumpy expression on his face - that was Lambert, the owner of the black horse.  
  
A young woman suddenly came running from the direction of the palace, she did not seem to notice Emhyr at all; her path led her past the witchers with quick steps, perhaps down the stone path towards one of the gates. She almost ran into Lambert, flinched, apologized wordily, held him by the arm apologetically for a moment before running on. He looked after her, maybe a moment too long, and his companion said mockingly, "Now, now, what would Keira say?" "You’d be surprised," Lambert replied with a telling wink. Then, as if he had noticed Emhyr's look - and maybe he actually had - the witcher turned to him at that very moment.  
  
"Oh, we did not expect such a noble reception committee," he said. His tone was borderline as usual, but in fact he managed to make a bow which - if Emhyr had been paying attention to it at the time - might have passed at court. His companion did the same, albeit much more swiftly and elegantly. It was, as Lambert explained to him succinctly out of pure politeness, of course the third of the wolf brothers, Eskel. He was undoubtedly an appearance. Many, perhaps most witchers had scarred their faces at one time or another, but he was of the scarce few with scarce so hideous and malforming. Under other circumstances, he might have been a quite attractive man. In a way, he still was. He did not say much and was surprisingly polite. It was not hard to imagine why Geralt and this witcher had become close since they were children.  
  
"Where is Geralt?" asked Lambert, who slowly noticed that this was perhaps not a planned greeting after all. It didn't escape his notice that the Emperor's face darkened briefly, which was not a good sign in view of his previous experiences with him. Even before Emhyr could answer, Lambert was quick to say, "He hasn't got himself into trouble again, has he?"  
"I'm not sure that's the right expression," Emhyr returned almost too calmly. "In any case, there is something to discuss.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Control the divine".


	11. Will I ever walk out of shadows so grey?

**\- 10 -**

**Will I ever walk out of shadows so grey?**

Geralt drifted close to the surface of a deep stream. It was a bit like floating: if he let go, he would drown, and yet he couldn't quite reach the surface. It became more and more exhausting not allowing himself to sink further, but there was something deep inside him that resisted. He wanted to let go, for it was so hard, and it hurt; the light above him hurt his eyes, while at the same time it was hard to see anything at all past that. What exactly was stopping him was as diffuse as everything else. Maybe it was a memory, a vague recollection of one dream.  
  
Like himself, this thought did not quite reach the surface, and like himself, the memory was fleeting from present to gone. None of this was truly tangible: it was getting dark, darker then until he floated through a murky twilight. There was a voice, sometimes, but he could not understand the words. At some point, it mingled with another voice in his flowing consciousness… Geralt remembered this sound, and for some reason, he wanted to reach the surface for this voice.  
  
It felt like walking through deep, hardened mud: the resistance was almost impossible to overcome. For every step forward, he seemed to take two steps back. And the pain didn't let up, it seemed to be everywhere, even if Geralt had no control over his body - or had no body at all. The more he approached the surface, the light he aimed for, the more the pain increased. The reason was there to give up and surrender to the darkness beneath. But now it was not so black anymore; somewhere deep below him, everything was grey and much less desirable than before.  
  
There was the voice again, now almost understandable. What it said almost made sense now, even if it still seemed to be only a few shreds. For Geralt, it was a man's voice, even if there was something slightly wrong about that feeling. But he knew the sound, he had heard it in a dream. It was familiar to him, and so he clung onto it.  
_"...alt!_ "  
It had some sort of meaning. He almost only needed to stretch out his hand, but even that hand was still only in his mind.  
_“Geralt!"_  
The voice in his dream had been sincere, a pleasant voice with which he almost connected a face. The word he heard, now so close to the light... it was a name. His name.  
"Geralt!"  
Again, for the third time, or maybe they had called him more often? Now the voice was much brighter. He had been wrong, it wasn't a man. With much effort, he slowly opened his eyes and gazed into violet counterparts. For a second, there seemed to be emptiness in those eyes, or indifference. But now, this seemed to give way to sincere concern.  
  
"Heavens, I was already worried... are you all right?"  
While he was still trying to make sense of these words, Geralt carefully started to find out what was going on. It was his nature, an instinct that took over automatically, even now, when for a moment, he wasn't even sure of himself.

Very clearly, he felt the ground under his body, he lay stretched out on the cold stone. His whole back had cooled, he assumed he had been lying there for a while. He could put the dots together, although everything else came back only very slowly - who he was, what he was. His head ached terribly, and although the room he was in was only dim, the sparse light hurt his eyes. He was dizzy, even though he lay on the floor, it was as if everything was spinning. He concentrated on his breath - another instinct that his body seemed to take over by itself. One or two deep breaths, and any ascending nausea was pushed back once more.  
  
All in all, his analysis was this: something was not right at all. That wasn't much, but at least he remembered the person who still bent over him with that slightly worried look, gazing at him somewhat expectantly. Expectantly, because obviously, an answer was required by him.  
"Geralt? You're starting to scare me. Follow my finger."  
A slender finger slid into his vision field, moving back and forth in front of his eyes. He tried to follow the instruction, but as soon as he turned his head even a little, nausea returned with force. Geralt concentrated on the eyes above him that looked at him questioningly, and a little helpless. A steep wrinkle appeared on the flawlessly smooth forehead.  
  
His tongue tried to remember how to move while his brain laboriously put letters together to form a word.  
"Yennefer?" He finally croaked, even that one name was exhausting to say. He understood nothing of this: neither where he was, why he was here, nor why it was Yennefer of all people he saw.  
"Do you remember anything?" she asked. Geralt would have liked to shake his head, but he knew that this was not a good idea yet in this state. Only a minute ago, it had been hard for him to remember who he was himself; everything before that was extremely vague, like in a dream. Everything seemed to him like in a dream, and it felt as if this thought was supposed to remind him of something.  
  
When he did not answer, the woman’s concern seemed to give way to a slight impatience. That suited her, and Geralt noticed only now that since he had opened his eyes, a certain mistrust had been added to all the contradictory feelings he had. Why? He couldn’t say, and it wasn’t important now.  
"We should leave," she spoke quickly. "Can you stand?"  
She reached for his shoulders, even that light touch was somehow uncomfortable. It seemed wrong to him, and for a moment, Geralt wondered if it was just because he felt so strange. He was still dizzy and would have preferred to close his eyes. Keeping them open was as painful as it was tiring. He would have liked to know why they had to go, or where to; but that also seemed far off from Geralt’s current range of effort. Thinking seemed like reaching for the clouds: standing on a mountain, that might seem almost possible, and yet you knew that the attempt was ridiculous.  
  
The sorceress' grip on his shoulders grew more energetic, and she tried to help him up. For a moment it seemed as if his body had forgotten how, but his muscles remembered faster than his memory. A little too quickly, perhaps, for no sooner had he raised his upper body from the cold floor, and sat reasonably upright, than nausea returned in destructive waves. The dizziness increased, and for a moment, the pain seemed to explode through his head. Geralt could just lean to the side, then his stomach took over, and he threw up uncontrollably. He noticed that Yennefer almost reflexively grabbed his hair and held it out of his face. The fact that he thought that this was an unusually affectionate gesture was also a feeling that came out of his subconsciousness.  
  
When nothing was left but the pain throbbing in his head, which just couldn’t seem to go away, he wished to lie down on the floor again. He felt miserable, disoriented, and weak, like after an awful potion or an accidental overdose. But he was pretty sure - well, as sure as he could be in his condition - that none of this was true.  
"We must go," Yennefer urged him again. "You should take this."  
While she rummaged in the depths of a bag - strange, he had never seen Yennefer carry a bag; she had always made sure he carried everything - he looked around carefully. They were in a small, run-down room. The bare walls showed cracks, and now he noticed that the stone floor was dusty and dirty. The only window in the room had hanging, half-destroyed shutters. A little light came in from outside and at least told him that it was late afternoon.  
  
Suddenly the sorceress held a small vial filled with a pale, watery liquid in front of his face. "Take this," she said. "It'll make you feel better."  
"What is it?" he croaked suspiciously.  
"Take it," she repeated impatiently. "Trust me."  
There was no reason to refuse her offer, so he took the bottle, uncorked it, and sniffed the contents for a moment. The smell gave nothing away; it nearly seemed that he had lost one of his senses. That was probably nonsense but did not halt a strange feeling from creeping upon him. Still, he tipped the potion down, although the feeling of something running down his throat made sickness in him rise again.  
Far too soon, Yennefer asked, "Is it better?"  
Geralt frowned, sending waves of pain through his head. He also felt dried blood, so he grabbed his forehead. There was nothing but the blood.  
"It's already nearly healed," said the sorceress. "Listen to me."  
She bent over and looked him straight in the eyes.  
"What I am about to tell you is important. Are you listening?"  
She watched his eyes, probing. For some reason, he moved away from her, tried to back away, as if the violet of her eyes had a hypnotic effect.  
  
She came closer again. Her crimson mouth approached his ear. Once more, she reached for his shoulders. The sorceress’ fingernails almost buried themselves into his flesh, and like everything else, this touch caused pain.  
"Listen," she said again. Geralt couldn't help it, he had to obey. Yennefer began to whisper something into his ear, very softly, but the sound was piercingly loud to him. Geralt blinked. What she said made no sense. Slowly she raised one hand, stroked his cheek.  
"I'm sorry," she said, and it sounded genuinely regretful.  
"What?" he asked. "Sorry for what?"  
He almost had the feeling of wading through an impenetrable fog. His head throbbed, ready to explode, his ears were ringing, and he heard his own voice as if from afar.

This was the reason why he did not hear anyone approaching him from behind, a figure slowly stepping out of the shadows. His senses were far too confused. He could feel fingers touching his forehead from behind, but he didn't even flinch.  
"Remember what I told you," Yennefer said once more. "And hurry, you must leave here." Then the fingers pressed against his forehead, hitting a certain point, and this time the world truly exploded around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "War of the thrones".
> 
> Well. Strange things are happening, aren't they?


	12. Everything’s grey, everyone’s pale

**-11-**

**Everything’s grey, everyone’s pale**

Although the arrival of additional guests, especially exotic ones, was no news to the Nilfgaardian court, two more fully equipped witchers were a rare sight. The weapons were stowed away according to protocol, and Emhyr made sure that some of the items on the agenda were distributed among his advisors. He then gathered the witchers, Ciri and Triss in his private chambers. It might seem unusual, but probably not eccentric enough that it would be rumored about at length. And if it did, he probably had to add a few more items to his stack of excuses.  
  
On the way there, not a word was spoken that wasn’t supposed to reach the courtiers' ever curious ears, so the witchers had no clue what to expect. Yet, back in the rooms it was immediately clear to Lambert and Eskel that something must have happened. Emhyr had changed nothing. The disorder would have made him furious at any other time, but now he was not only aware that he had to preserve the traces, painful as it was. He did not care either. The permanent occupation with the preparations for the wedding could hardly distract him from the fact that his future husband was missing. That he did not know how Geralt had spent the night while he himself had lain awake, in the transient imprint of Geralt's body on the sheets. That he didn't know what the vampire had done to him and only had the sight of the now dried blood on the floor reminding him of Geralt’s certain pain.  
  
It was the blood on which the eyes of the witchers fell first, after both had taken in the surroundings and drawn first conclusions.  
"What happened here?" Eskel asked quietly before Lambert could open his mouth and let out one of his usual rantings. Perhaps this was only meant to hide his immediate concern, he was not the only one who was worried: whatever had happened there, and Geralt's apparent absence did not bode well. Ciri gave them a shortened summary of what she had concluded the previous evening from everything she had found. Lambert kneeled in front of the nearly browned bloodstain and followed the trail of the drops with his eyes. He suddenly shot up, pushed open the door to the bedroom without bothering to ask - no one stopped him - and gazed at the scratch marks on the wall on the other side. He examined the trail of blood and the window, while everyone else watched him in silence.  
"The brat is right," he finally said.  
"Of course, I didn't learn to read tracks from you," Ciri answered almost cheekily.  
"I cast a locator spell, but it pointed right at the palace. It cannot be narrowed down further," Triss explained.  
"To this place?" Eskel asked skeptically. "It seems highly unlikely that the vampire is hiding Geralt anywhere around here."  
"Just what we said," Ciri replied. "But we should investigate the matter anyway."  
"As unobtrusively as possible," Emhyr added.  
"We are to sneak around here and act inconspicuous?" Lambert burst out a cheerless, raspy laugh. "Sounds more like a job for this other witcher we have heard about. Geralt mentioned him in letters. Where is the feline anyway?"  
Triss pulled a face. She had the uneasy feeling that all eyes were on her, and she wondered if Geralt had told them more in his letters - although she had been very discreet. "That's the problem," she started. "I haven’t..."  
  
At that moment, a noise could be heard from outside. It sounded like a loud discussion. "What's going on?" said Emhyr with evident impatience. Ciri was already at the door, opened it a crack. After a brief discussion with the guards, she finally let Adan in. He made his big entrance, for all eyes were on the elf with the outrageously flawless face and the thick dark curls when he entered the room. Triss looked surprised and relieved, because she had already feared to report that another witcher had disappeared. Lambert and Eskel watched him disparagingly on the one hand, but with a certain amount of mistrust on the other.  
"My my, it was quite an effort to find you here," he said. "What's going on? As far as I remember, there would now be a completely different agenda where at least some of you were expected to be. Some unfortunate ladies complained that the audience is cancelled and a cheese-faced guy named Broderick will only take written requests."  
Emhyr frowned. Had he missed something? Had he caused more unrest and chaos? It was futile to think about that now.  
"Does he always talk so much?"  
That was Lambert, of course, who was quite a match for Adan in flippancy - with the difference that he actually had a sense of humor.  
"It was in the letters," Eskel replied with a fine smile.  
"Can we cut that short?" Emhyr interjected testily. "Is there any way to search the palace quietly for clues?"  
"What clues?" asked Adan. Triss sighed.  
"Geralt has disappeared. Abducted, in fact, at least that's what we believe," she replied softly.  
"By whom?" the feline asked confused.  
Triss answered impatiently and almost nervous with tension, "A vampire, once commissioned by Assire var Anahid, who now seems to work on his own account." Adan blinked while trying to process this information. Although he had witnessed Assire's murderous plans firsthand, even Triss had foregone filling him in on the whole story. What had happened before Cidaris, he had pieced together from fragments: Blood in a tower on a small island, Geralt's strange vampire friend Regis, the fact that there was occasional talk that Ciri had practically cut a vampire in half. So it was obvious that at some point a higher vampire must have been involved. He had clearly returned then - not a very pleasant thought. Apparently for nobody in the room, even the two witchers.

  


Adan had already heard quite a bit about them, but in this case too, most of the information had been between the lines. Adan had spent only a comparatively short span of his life in the company of other witchers. And after all he had experienced, in many ways and for many reasons, this could hardly be compared with the experiences of other schools. The idea of companions who would risk their own lives for that of another was something that he hadn’t lived to see yet. It was not that the concept was totally foreign to him, although before he met Geralt, he hadn't seen another witcher for years. And he had not quite understood why it had been so important to him to help Geralt. Of course, Adan had heard about him, but legends and rumors didn't make a man. There was something strangely attractive about him, less physically - although, for some, if the rumors were true - than about his whole personality. For Adan this was not tangible, either because he was an elf or because of his whole upbringing, if what had been done to any witcher ever could be considered an upbringing. Apparently, he couldn't escape it completely either. For he noticed that it touched him strangely: the close bond between Geralt and his brothers in arms, their immediate concern. The sheer fact of how many alliances Geralt had forged. No, that was the wrong word: he had made friends. And more than that, the aura of the other witchers emanated for Adan that they felt like brothers.  
  
He turned to one of them and said, "I'd say you're Eskel, aren’t you?" The one so addressed turned to him, revealing his prominent facial scars.  
"What gave me away, my beauty?" he asked in a soft voice.  
"What? No one has ever mentioned that," Adan returned irritated. "The magic you radiate is simply strong."  
He left open whether he felt this because of his elven origins or whether he could actually see that Triss' neck hair had stood up - she was standing close to Eskel. "While this one," he continued, pointing to Lambert, "matches his description exactly. In everything."  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Lambert said angrily.  
  
Emhyr raised a hand, and for once that seemed to be an understandable signal for everyone. "Do I have to repeat my question?" He asked in a cold voice - a close sign that it would be wise not to strain his limited patience now.  
"There are not very many possibilities," Eskel replied serenely. "Not in a place where there are so many people running around all the time. Neither tracks nor a smell would last very long here. If we assume that this vampire disappeared through the window with Geralt, there are only two possibilities: Either the spell didn't work. Or, the spell reacts this way because a message was left somewhere in the palace. Maybe we're waiting in vain for that vampire to contact us. Maybe he's waiting for us to read his message."  
"Then perhaps he should have expressed himself more clearly," Ciri replied heatedly.  
"We could repeat the spell, so that it leads us directly to Geralt," Lambert suggested. "Too dangerous," said Adan of all people.  
"Three witchers, a sorceress and Ciri should be enough to keep a vampire in check," Lambert replied.  
"Higher vampires are not particularly susceptible to spells," Eskel reasoned. "And we have no idea what to expect. Such an action could lead us directly into a trap and put Geralt in greater danger."  
"That's not an option," Emhyr stated seriously.  
  
"Is there no exact map of the palace?" Ciri asked. "Some kind of floor plan?" "Of course not," Emhyr replied somewhat too sharply. He felt a growing tiredness that he could not give in to. "I bet there is," Adan suddenly said. All eyes were fixed on him - some looks were disparaging, others thoughtful. Triss glanced at him like she thought he had a crazy idea. The Emperor's face was almost impenetrable, but he seemed restless to Adan in a subliminal way. He had already experienced this, both with him and with Geralt. They had both tried hard not to let their worries become too obvious, but in fact this one mastered it better than Geralt. In any case, their connection was strong - something else Adan found fascinating because he lacked the experience. However, now was not the time to consider human characteristics.  
"Wait a moment," he curtly said to no one in particular, and fled the room.  
  
"What is this now?" Ciri moaned, annoyed.  
Triss replied, although she was not spoken to and nobody was looking at her in particular, "How should I know?" Lambert gave her a strange look that she didn't notice. "We should focus on what we do know," she said. "Eskel is right. What if this vampire really isn't getting in touch because he has some twisted idea about giving us a riddle?"  
"That was Assire's specialty, and she's dead," Emhyr remarked, almost sounding gloomily. For a while they discussed all the variables, even though it was clear that this was no more than fishing in the dark. Emhyr began to wonder if this one sleepless night really was getting to him or if the apparent hopelessness of the situation was wearing him down. His head was pounding. He didn't have the nerve to deal with a vampire, even hypothetically. In fact, he almost felt like a defiant child who insisted on getting his way - for all he wanted was his peace and happiness. Had it been wrong to assume that he deserved it? He wanted security, although he knew very well that there would never be absolute security for him, let alone for Geralt. With every fibre of his heart he wished fo the reliable peace of the past months to return. He wanted _Geralt_ back. He was his constant. It was corny, but Geralt made him… better, in a way. Probably without knowing it, because there were things he didn't say, just like his often taciturn witcher. Emhyr was counting on him to feel it. Now he regretted that, because he didn't want his last memory to be hasty sex and far too few words.

Even less did he want to deepen these thoughts, and he didn't have to, because at that moment the elf stormed in the door again. The guards called after him, and once more Ciri had to appease them. All that mattered was what Adan held in his hand - and that was a kind of map. In fact, the parchment that he hastily unrolled and spread out on the floor showed a rather roughly sketched arrangement of most of the rooms in the palace. Foregoing secret passages, of course.  
"Where did you get this?" Triss asked astonished - and watched him with, at least he thought so, renewed interest.  
"Long story," Adan replied succinctly. Not a bad one, though, he thought to himself; for one day he would tell her how he had persuaded the last assassin of the Imperial Palace to hand him this very private map.  
"However," he added with a serious glance to Emhyr, "There's something behind it we need to talk about."  
Emhyr looked at him thoughtfully but did not answer. He looked at the sketch and came to the same conclusion as the feline: that this was an actual, trustworthy map with most of the rooms of the palace marked on it. Or at least the most important ones.  
"Can the spell be repeated?" he asked.  
Triss cast a thoughtful glance at the now dried blood on the floor. "It may not be as precise as with fresh blood," she began, but a glance from Emhyr silenced her. Not a good subject. She just nodded, took a deep breath and said, "I think it should work."  
  
A knock at the door ripped everyone out of their thoughts.  
"I don't believe it," Ciri scolded. "What is it now?"  
She was already on her way to the door, but Emhyr held her back. He understood that his frequent absence would raise more questions than the Geralt’s, so he went himself. His nerves were strained to breaking point, though, as he swung open the door. Standing in front of it was an adolescent, curly-haired girl, a messenger dressed in hunting clothes, with an excited expression on her face.  
"Your Majesty," she began with a slightly clumsy curtsey, but he immediately interrupted a possible torrent of words with an imperious, _“What?"_  
She didn't expect it, blinked and swallowed briefly and then stammered, "The... the hunting party awaits you, sir."  
"The what?"  
Emhyr's anger turned to momentary confusion, until suddenly Triss came to the door behind him. "That's right, there was supposed to be a hunt," she said.  
"Might I ask who put this on my agenda?"  
His voice was icy, but Triss returned his gaze with cool composure.  
"You did," she replied. The young girl stepped uncomfortably from one foot to the other and stared at them with her mouth open. Emhyr remembered now that a few months ago he had thought it an amusing idea, while Geralt had called it _"ridiculous leisure activities for the amusement of far too bored nobles“_. But now it was too late, and he couldn't cancel this one on short notice.  
"Fifteen minutes," he lorded the unhappy girl at the door. "Tell them I'll be late."  
Then he slammed the door and hurried back across the room.  
  
"I have to change," he explained. "You take care of that spell. If it leaves a trail, you follow."  
"You can't go _hunting_ now," Ciri protested. "It is far too dangerous."  
"Then come with me," he shouted, already in the bedroom. Triss frowned.  
"This is not possible, Ciri must entertain the ladies of the knights and nobles who go hunting with you."  
"I have to what?" yelled Ciri. "How come you're the only one who doesn't have to work a strange agenda?"  
"Imagine, I am supposed to be somewhere else right now, so we'd better hurry with this spell."  
  
Emhyr came out of the other room, almost entirely dressed in an outrageously exclusive hunting outfit sporting Nilfgaardian colors. As he walked, he put on his gloves and gave Adan a quick glance.  
"Then you're coming," he said impatiently. "The other two and my sorceress will take care of the rest."  
"What, me?" Adan said, surprised. "I firmly believe that the hunting habits of the nobles go against my principles."  
Lambert snorted. "You'd rather eat vegetables?"  
Emhyr was already at the door, snapping his fingers - a very rude but clear sign that there was no longer any room for objection.  
"You keep your hands off the imperial game," he replied. "If Cirilla thinks this matter is dangerous, I may need extra protection."  
There was little objection to that. Shrugging, Adan turned to the door and followed Emhyr. Ciri rolled her eyes, then she looked at Triss seriously and said, "I should go before we make any more fuss. If you find anything, please, let me know right away, will you?"  
Triss grabbed her hand briefly, squeezed it and nodded.  
"Go," she said. "We'll take care of it."  
With a last, long look at the witchers Ciri finally left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "The Soulforged".


	13. Life is a map and it is quite confusing

**-12-**

**Life is a map and it is quite confusing**

For a moment the witchers and Triss, remaining in the room, watched each other uneasily. It didn't seem right to be there – within the Emperor’s personal chambers where the only signs remaining of Geralt were his blood and a chunk of armor. Triss, who had had more time to get used to the situation, covered the general uneasiness by a kindly expressed, "We didn't have time for a proper welcome yet.” She overcame the almost physically palpable distance between them by giving Lambert and Eskel a warm embrace.  
  
"Where is Keira?" Triss asked, addressing Lambert. He shrugged, and his mouth curled into his usual sarcastic grin. "You know how she is - betting on a grand entrance. She will arrive late."  
"Besides," Eskel interjected, "She didn't feel like, and I quote: 'going after two grumpy witchers and their horses' asses' or something around those lines."  
The sorceress giggled her sparkling Triss-chuckle and replied, "I guess she did the math without Yennefer. From what I've heard, she's up to something similar. They’d steal each other's limelight."  
"Or that of the newlyweds," Eskel interjected with a grin.  
This remark drew back the playful banter and all three quickly became serious again.  
  
"We somehow always knew that this vampire could be a danger again," Lambert said, unusually calm.   
Triss nodded. "Yes… but Emhyr is right. What more could he want, since Assire is dead? She must have persuaded him that there was a possibility of triggering a second sphere conjunction."  
"That's nonsense," Eskel said, by his standards, nearly agitated. "After Lambert told me about it, I did some research. I don't think there's any magical way to do something like that."  
"I thought you'd turned your back on Kaer Morhen," said Triss, immediately coming to the right conclusion: that Eskel had consulted the old witcher keeps' extensive library.  
"It is not always so easy to break away from old habits," he answered quietly.  
"But you are right, I think," Triss followed up. "I have rummaged through some books myself. Assire was megalomaniac, no doubt, but certainly not so much that she would have dared to do such a thing. I don't want to believe that. More likely, she was exploiting one of the vampire's weaknesses - his desire to leave this world, imperfect to him - behind and return to the land of his ancestors."  
  
"He's welcome to go back… and take a bunch of monsters with him," growled Lambert. "I just still don't see what good it would do him to kidnap Geralt. If that's even what happened."  
"You doubt it?" Eskel asked with a frown.  
"Not by the tracks," Lambert replied, pointing grimly at the blood on the ground, dried and brown; a clear reminder that a fight had indeed taken place here.  
"I do believe that the vampire took Geralt. The question is rather… why? If he wanted revenge, he would have attacked the Emperor. Or Ciri.“  
"Of course, but obviously he picked the wrong time," Eskel replied.  
"Do you really think the guy would leave such a thing to chance?" Lambert interjected. "I think he did want Geralt. If this is an abduction, we haven't heard from the kidnapper yet, which is rather unusual. And Ciri was right: this fight here was unequal. When Geralt was hit by that vase, he must have gone down immediately. This thing is solid, it didn't even break when it hit the corner."  
"What are you getting at?" Triss asked impatiently. He looked at her seriously, but also grimly - with a spark of anger in his eyes that went well beyond his usual attitude of 'the world is unfair'.  
"It could well have been a fatal blow," he finally remarked.  
  
"No, I don't think so," Eskel interjected harshly. His bond with Geralt reached back so far, from the little boy who had to endure even more than all the others to forming the legend of the White Wolf. It was unimaginable that the man could die in such a ridiculous way. Lambert was no less concerned about Geralt, but he seemed to be the only one who dared to raise this issue now. It was brutal, and he didn't want it either. But did that make the possibility any less true? It didn't, and everybody knew it. Still...  
"He could have just left the body here," Triss said, uneasyness in her voice.  
"Or he could just have taken it with him to make us believe he abducted him," Lambert replied cruelly.  
"Not enough blood," Eskel said between clenched teeth. It was easier to be angry with Lambert than to face that possibility. Lambert knew that very well - it was one of the reasons he brought it up. "If you hit the right spot," he muttered and pointed to his own temple, "blood is not the problem."  
"Stop it," Triss commanded them both fiercely. "If we make such an assumption, one of you is welcome to go to the Emperor and tell him to prepare a funeral rather than a wedding.“

Neither of the two witchers had experienced Triss in this way before; they did not yet know her new, grim and partly cynical side. Yet in the presence of these two, the sorceress did not even feel that she had to be the new Triss - the one that the events of the past had made of her. As if she could be herself again when she was with her old companions. There were things in her that she didn't like about herself. On the other hand, this new Triss was very determined and decisive. A little bit came with her task as advisor to the Emperor: her ability to put cool and foresighted thinking before feelings was clearly growing under this duty. But in this matter, she was blind to logic. And the evidence - not assisting - was inconclusive.  
  
"Listen," she eventually said in a more conciliatory tone, "We’ll stick with the original assumption for now. Geralt's been taken, we don't know why, and until his kidnapper contacts us, we still have a chance to find him before then."  
Eskel looked at Lambert, and the latter understood everything in that gaze. Lambert nodded and said, roughly, "Well, let's suppose that's the case. What now?"  
Triss knelt on the ground, pointed to the map and blood and said, "Now we're trying to figure out why the spell pointed to the palace in the first place. Lambert, pass me your knife."  
The witcher addressed knew very well that it would be useless to pretend that he had followed the rules of the palace and would not carry any kind of weapon. Of course, he had a knife with him, and pulled it out of his clothes, handing it to the sorceress. The sound the blade made as it scraped across the dried blood on the floor was unpleasantly loud in the witchers' ears.  
"Eskel, hand me two books, please. The ends of this parchment keep rolling up. And Lambert, watch the trail that's about to appear on the paper. I must concentrate on keeping the blood fluid."  
  
It could have been that she wanted to keep the two witchers busy to distract them from their gloomy thoughts; or maybe this helped her with her own powerlessness bubbling inside. Triss was not powerless, on the contrary. The spell to re-liquefy the dried blood was not easy: reversing a process to bring the equivalent of life into nearly dead matter was never easy. It took a lot of concentration to maintain the spell long enough. Yet in the end, that wasn't necessary at all. As soon as the eerie stain on the knife tip had turned back to liquefied blood, it flowed down onto the parchment and spread from the center of the map in quick succession across the individual rooms marked. Like the first time, thin, red lines were created that glided over the paper like ink. But much faster than in Triss' first spell, all these lines stopped at some point and indicated dead ends. All except one, which crawled purposefully across the map and finally came to a spiral stop in one of the inscribed rooms.  
  
"There," Lambert said, impatiently pointing his finger at the spot as if he had to deliberately emphasize the obvious. "What is there?"  
None of the rooms drawn in were labeled - it was obvious that this sketch was not for orientation. Or at least not for the orientation of anyone other than the owner of this map, whoever that was. Triss pursed her lips thoughtfully.  
"I don't know," she admitted. "We haven't been here that long either, I guess Adan would know more about this..."  
"Well… fine, but the feline is chasing mice," Lambert growled.  
"We'll do it the old-fashioned way," Eskel replied calmly. "We'll find out where on the map the room we're in is, and then we'll grope our way to that marker."  
"Alright, discreetly," Triss replied. "There is no way we can take this map and walk around outside with it."  
Eskel smiled slightly. "Don't worry," he said. "Lambert here remembers everything." With these words, he playfully tapped his knuckles on the witcher’s skull. Lambert flinched back and slapped Eskel on the shoulder with his flat hand.  
  
"This is no game," Triss reminded the two of them, sharply.  
"Maybe it is, we just don't play by that vampire's rules," Lambert grimly replied. Then everyone bent over the map and tried to orientate themselves. At some point, Eskel pointed to a location on the map and said, "I think we're here." His visual thinking had always been perhaps the most developed of all wolves. "So, we have to cross this corridor," he continued, drawing an imaginary line on the paper with his finger, "Turn here, follow the passage, through this door - a bit confusing - and then turn right twice more."  
"A large room, shouldn't be too hard to find," Lambert hummed. "I can remember that. Let's go." He was already on his feet again, and Eskel followed him; Triss carefully rolled up the parchment and hid it behind a copy of "Elven Sages" on the bookshelf. It was reasonably safe there, as no one would dare enter the Emperor's personal chambers - especially as they were guarded. And they truly could not take the map with them.  
  
The thought of the armed guards at the door reminded her of something, and before they left the room she remarked, "We still have to find out why the guards didn't notice any of the fighting in here."  
"It won't be easy," Eskel replied thoughtfully. "The Emperor can hardly address them directly without at the same time admitting that something has happened. And the fact that he didn't immediately put his own units in charge of the reconnaissance wouldn't look too good either."  
Triss bit her lower lip. She hadn't considered that yet.  
"This will be a job for the feline when he returns," Lambert said. "I have a feeling that this sneaking around is exactly his style."  
"Why have a go on him like that?" Eskel asked in surprise. "You've only known him for… what? Ten minutes?“  
"That is enough to know what his kind can do," Lambert replied, surprisingly calm. Triss looked at him, astonished.  
"It was meant as a compliment? Lambert ..."  
He raised one hand and waved it off. "Let's leave before I say something I regret.“

  


It turned out that Lambert truly did have an excellent memory. He followed the trail with certainty; every corridor, every junction and every door held fresh in his mind. "There in front," he said at some point, pointing to a large double door at the end of a corridor that was unguarded despite its apparent importance.  
"Are you sure?" Triss asked with undisguised skepticism.  
"Why, what's behind there?"  
"Well, this happens to be the throne room," Triss replied dryly. "It should be locked now, since there are no audiences today," she added - which also explained why the guards were missing.  
"Are you really sure that spell worked?" Eskel urged. "No offense, but it just doesn't make any sense."  
"It's not an exact science," Triss stated irritably. "But I can assure you, this is not the first time I've done this. None of my spells fail twice in a row. It must be true."  
"Fine, how do we get in?" Lambert asked after he had tried to open the door - it was locked.  
"You can't get it open; it's secured with a latch on the other side," Triss said impatiently. "Let me."  
  
The room was not secured against magic - it was usually not necessary either, since audiences rarely took place without the presence of a mage or sorceress. Also, there was hardly any reason to break into the room. Soon the heavy double door was no longer an obstacle, and they slipped into the throne room with a last, searching look at the empty corridor behind them.  
This room was probably the most splendid in the whole palace, with the throne placed high and richly decorated with elaborate gold inlays as a prominent eye-catcher at the very end of the hall. Three floor-to-ceiling windows behind it illuminated the whole room, and man-high candlesticks stood ready for dull days. The walls and ceiling were decorated with paintings depicting various scenes of Nilfgaardian conquests from ancient times - a sometimes tasteless but typical example of the style of art preferred in the country.  
  
Triss and the witchers didn't have an eye for it. They looked around, searching for a clue, but there was nothing: the room was empty, nothing but the luxurious shell of a place that would only be brought to life by the presence of the Emperor. Even Triss began to wonder if it was possible that she had made a mistake. But she knew the words of this spell; she was no novice, she knew what she was doing. Lambert had started restlessly searching the room along one wall, and Eskel did the same on the other side. Triss feared that this was fruitless. It was hard to imagine that anyone could have entered the room, even to leave a message. And what should this message look like? Only a few seconds later they had the answer.  
  
"There's blood here," Lambert said softly, pointing to the throne itself, of all things. It was covered with a soft, red cushion, which was also embroided with a fine, lined pattern. The blood had not been visible from far away. When they came closer, it became clear: the seat was smeared with small, single bloodstains that had already dried. "What the hell is this?" Eskel asked confusedly.  
"Damn it," Triss cursed. "He set us up."  
"What do you mean?"  
The sorceress angrily pointed to the blood and explained, "He has foreseen what I am trying to do and made sure that the spell will lead to a dead end. After all, there was enough blood, he only had to help himself."  
"But still no body," Eskel said. "He's just preventing us from finding him. After all this is proof that he has Geralt."  
"Above all, it's proof that he's playing with us," growled Lambert. "He is telling us that he is always one step ahead of us. And that he left this ridiculous clue here, of all places, is obviously symbolic. He wants to demonstrate his superiority. And right now, he is fucking ahead of us. Because now… we have nothing.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what now? I don't suppose Emhyr will take this very lightly after he returns from his little hunt... 
> 
> Chapter title is a line from "Fly".


	14. Surrounded by night, I've been offered insight

**\- 13 -**

**Surrounded by night, I’ve been offered insight**

Geralt finds himself lying on his stomach on the floor, his face pressed on cold stone. His hands are tied behind his back, this is the second thing he feels. He doesn't come to abruptly, it's rather that his consciousness slowly remembers that he has a body. His eyes are still closed, and for a moment he lets his other senses take precedence. It is an instinct, because, for a few heartbeats, he does not know exactly who this body belongs to. In his parched mouth he feels bile, and his head hurts; so much so that he intuitively knows that it will hurt even more when he fully wakes.  
  
The floor is cold; even the cold hurts his face, and he forces himself to open his eyes. Wherever he is, it is dark, and that at least helps with the throbbing in his head. He senses that he is alone; in some room beneath a small window through which hardly an light at all shines through. It must be evening, according to the shadows, the sun hasn’t set. Geralt moves his wrists, at least he tries. His hands are bound together with a simple rope. He can move them, at least a little bit, but it doesn’t help that he’s on his back. He breathes in, breathes out - that too, instinctively - and turns on his back as he exhales. His head does not explode, but it is not pleasant either. He has no idea what is wrong with him, why he is here, why he is tied up. But at least he knows he has to get out of here. Breathe in once more, breathe out; then he lifts his upper body from the floor as quickly as possible and attempts to lift himself into a sitting position. Of course it is not a good idea to do it quickly, because now he is dizzy and feeling sick. But too slowly, and he wouldn't have gotten up the first time. He can breathe through the nausea. And he doesn't know if he has the stamina to try any more of this several times.  
  
_Now you're sitting. What's next?_ He thinks. The rope, _of course, the rope._  
Geralt looks around carefully, his eyes do not penetrate the increasing darkness as easily as he thinks they should. The room is empty except for dust and dirt and... blood, and some vomit; both of it already mostly dried. There's nothing here, no furniture, no sign of any life. The wall is crafted of rough masonry, that may work. He's sitting a little bit away from the wall, so he has to try to slide back slowly. Actually, he can _only_ go very slowly, and has a hard time keeping his balance and not just falling over. When that happens, he knows that, he won't get up for a while.   
He slides closer to the wall, holding himself upright with the thought that although he doesn't know where he is and why he is here, he should definitely disappear. At some point he feels cold stone at his back. He stretches his hands as far as he can, scans the wall, feels the stone - rough, but is it rough enough? If he tries to just rub the bonds off here, it could take hours. A thought forms in Geralt, very slowly, as if this thought first has to overcome a dense fog. His head worries him, everything feels so unreal. But he suppresses that and concentrates on this thought.  
_Igni._  
Very briefly he doesn't know what to do with it, but then he is able to grasp it: he can move his fingers, he can form a sign. But he cannot aim, and that will probably hurt, but does that make any difference?  
_Probably not._  
So he moves a bit away from the wall again, moves his fingers, points the sign at the stones. Oddly enough, remembering the symbol is easier than anything else. Geralt can't see it, but behind his back a small flame forms, hits the wall and from there, the rope. However, it also hits his hand, and a short, sharp pain tells him that it has left the first burn. Smell and sound tell him what he already suspected: a single attempt will be far from enough to burn through the strong rope. So he repeats the sign, again and again, burning his hands and once almost his clothes. The pain burns not only on his hands, but also in his head. Still, he doesn't stop.   
  
Again and again he stretches his hands to check the strength of the restraints. The rope is now greasy from his blood, but also strained by the constant bursts of fire, and finally it breaks with a short, crackling sound. Relieved, he moves his aching hands forward, and for a moment allows himself to lay the back of his head against the cool wall. The burns on his hands are not so bad, they will probably heal soon; nevertheless he thinks for a moment if he has something to bandage them with. Another survey of his situation reveals nothing new: he still does not know why he is here or why he came here in the first place. Who tied him up? A subliminal feeling tells him that he does not want to find out. Geralt has no weapons, of his armour he obviously only has his trousers left, he is wearing a shirt and is barefoot. All of this makes little sense, but he doesn't want to bother with it.

  


_Get up._  
Geralt props his hands on the floor, his body tries to remember what to do now. He lifts himself up but is immediately overcome by raging dizziness, and falls forward, can just barely stretch out his hands and catch himself. This position increases the pain in his head, his stomach is protesting; he gags, but nothing comes up. He hears himself moaning as he tries to get up again, somehow it sounds far away. There is something wrong with his senses, everything feels dull and numb. His hair falls into his face and he thinks for a moment that it is too long for… too long for what? Like a word that seems to be on the tip of his tongue, there is a thought; a memory, but the memory does not come back. He pushes the thoughts away and concentrates on the pure body function. Sometime and somehow he finally succeeds. He comes up, immediately has to brace himself against the wall, but he stands.   
  
_If you can stand, you can walk._  
Just why does his head hurt so much that it feels like it's going to shatter? He can’t even see straight ahead for a moment. Geralt tries hard to coordinate his eyes, which is strangely difficult because he is so dizzy.   
_But walking is not difficult, is it?_  
One foot in front of the other. The ground is freezing cold under his bare feet, and he feels that this bothers him more than it should. Although, the feeling is helpful, he dives into the cold under his feet, concentrating on it, it distracts him from the pain and nausea. He walks, one step after the other, to the door he sees on the other side of the room. It may be only ten steps away, or perhaps a hundred or a thousand. But everything starts with a single step, and who counts? At some point the door is right in front of him, and he reaches out his hand, but he only manages to grab the wall.   
_Lack of hand-eye coordination._  
This voice in his head is not his own right now, but he doesn't quite get it. What is important is that the voice is right, and that is worrying. It is still not easy, but Geralt starts to establish the facts: a head injury, probably a concussion. And that means he must have experienced something like this before, maybe more often. While he holds on to the wall and stares at the floor with an empty gaze, this thought becomes a fact. But also a second one: that this is worse, even if he does not know in which way. He still has no idea why he is here. But he is determined to find out where he is, so he stretches out his hand again. This time he hits the door, and surprisingly, it is not locked. Someone bashed in his skull, tied him up and threw him into a room, but did not lock the door. This doesn't make sense - unless one would assume that he is far from waking up. It is the only possibility Geralt can think of now, and it reinforces the idea that he should get out quickly.   
  
Behind the door there is darkness, which is not illuminated by any window; a narrow corridor from which further doors lead off, and at the end sits a staircase. His eyes barely manage to penetrate the gloominess, and vaguely the thought forms that it is due to the head injury. A few careful steps later, he suddenly stands at the stairs; he can hardly remember how he got here. Geralt clutches the banister with both hands. It is wobbly, the steps are dusty under his feet, but the exit will be below these stairs, so he has to walk on. Slowly, very slowly - he has the feeling he is crawling down these stairs - he goes down step by step. Finally there are windows again, some of them are smashed and all of them are dirty and dark, smeared with dirt that has been sticking to them for months or even years, and they hardly let any light in.  
  
Outside it is almost night, but moonlight brings a hazy, shadow-filled brightness to individual areas around the windows. Spots on the walls remind of old paintings, but the amount of dust and debris and dirt also proves that this building has been abandoned for a long time. At the end of the stairs is a kind of entrance hall, large and empty, cold and dirty. Geralt is only interested in the door, two large door wings that promise freedom. His senses are still hidden as if under fog; he doesn't know if he would even hear if someone would come now and catch him again, so close to his destination. What he hears is so dull and feels so far away that he cannot trust this sense. He gropes his way until he reaches the front door. It is also unlocked - why should it be? In this abandoned mansion there is nothing to get but ancient memories of better times. Slowly the door gives way to a push of his hand. Cold air enters, penetrates through his shirt and shoots up the hair on his arms.   
  
In front of him lies a yard that may have once been laid out as a garden - some stone edgings can still be seen, but everything is overgrown with undergrowth and weeds; nature that has made its way through gravel.   
_Keep going._  
The voice inside him is his own again, and he complies. He goes on until he reaches the end or the beginning of what was once a path to the building behind him. Carefully he turns around: behind him lies an estate that was once a respectable one, a stately two-story building. Now it is run-down, partly destroyed, old and unimportant.   
  
The path leads gently downhill from here, and in the pale moonlight Geralt recognizes a gate a bit below him - the actual entrance to this property. Further away, behind it and much harder to recognize, because his eyes still hurt like his whole head, is a forest. What lies behind it is unclear. But Geralt does not think about it. He walks, partly stumbling, down the path and eventually reaches the gate. The gate has opened a crack, but it does not seem to have been opened by force - at least no traces of it can be seen. He slips through. The path in front of him is almost a real road, and for some reason this makes him uncertain. He has the unreal feeling that whoever brought him here could return on this road, so he steers his steps in the direction of the forest, struggles hard through the undergrowth and continues cross-country. 

The building, the landscape, the path and the forest: none of it is familiar. All of this could be anywhere on the Continent. It might be easier during the day - the position of the sun would tell him the direction, because the moon and the stars constantly keep disappearing behind clouds. He treads into the unknown, leaves and earth and branches under his feet. All Geralt knows is that somewhere in front of him there must be something that he wants to reach. A place he wants to go to, or a person? There is still pain and dizziness and nausea, and everything prevents him from remembering. Every now and then he has to stop, hold onto a tree. The bark cuts into the burnt skin of his hands, but this pain prevents him from throwing up - and he doubts anyway that there is anything left to vomit.   
  
He stumbles through the forest, just forward and onwards, always with the feeling that it will come to his mind right away, that he will remember in an instance. Geralt does not know how long he walks, and it goes so agonizingly slow. At some point there is only a phalanx of trees behind him, the path and even more the building seem to be far away, but it is so dark that it is hard to tell. The forest seems endless, he almost asks himself if he is walking in circles. Or if this is a dream. _A dream_ … it seems to him that this thought is important, but how can a dream be important?  
The more he moves forward, the more obvious the pain becomes. His head pounds with every step, and strangely enough, the feeling penetrates from his feet through his whole body to his skull. The burn marks on his hands are also unpleasantly noticeable, and the cold air that passes over them is anything but soothing for his irritated skin. In addition to all this, there is now a burning sensation in his leg; a deep-seated pain, both old and somehow familiar.   
But for some reason, all of this only pushes him further. At least that much he knows: that pain in itself is familiar, and that he can bear it… a lot of it.   
  
In spite of everything, he has to pause at some point, even if only for a short while; he will go on in a moment, he has to. What drives him is stronger than the pain, even if it is so vague and blurred. His senses are still subdued, but the soft crackling in the undergrowth, the distant rustling of leaves - he hears it. His gaze falls on his hands, propped up against a tree in front of him, and Geralt realizes that there are creatures out there that can smell his blood over a long distance.   
_Nocturnal. Picks up the smell of blood. Moves on the ground. Several movements - a pack._  
His memory, so weak at the moment, suddenly spits out a veritable list of beings. Not one of them he wants to meet right now, not in this state, not without weapons.   
_But you have a dagger._  
His right hand automatically reaches to his hip, but there is nothing there. He looks down at himself, and there is a sheath for a blade, but it is empty. Geralt's frowns - there is a thought, very close to the surface, if only he would be able to focus more strongly ... _The dream. It has to do with the dream._  
The sounds come closer, and it is difficult to tell from which direction they are coming, and in which direction he should go so that he can avoid them. But Geralt does not go; he stays and leans his aching forehead against the tree in front of him. There was a dream, and the dream itself may not be important, but for some reason it is the key to his memories. There is something in this dream, someone, and that is connected to the dagger. Has he lost the dagger? He is very close, he knows it; and although the noises are coming closer now, and are now no longer merely a rustling, but more clearly become paws on the leafy ground, he does not flee. He had a dagger, a good, solid blade, and he gave it away. He gave it to someone, and someone died by that blade, and much later…  
  
Much later Emhyr gave him a new blade, more a knife than a dagger, the blade not double-edged, but of distinct masterful craftsmanship. An exactly balanced piece, versatile, first-class steel, and the handle ... the handle is decorated with a wolf's head of pure silver. It is a custom-made, not just a replacement for the dagger, it is a gift. As if he had wanted to apologize that Geralt’s dagger, together with a crazy sorceress, fell many miles deep into a river and sank there. 

Now it feels for a moment as if his head has actually exploded, because with power the memories come back. Not all of them, he still doesn't know how he got here, who is responsible for it. But many others.  
_Nilfgaard. The palace. The wedding. Emhyr._  
Single words explode in his brain, fragments, memories. The arrival in Nilfgaard, the reception of the apparently long missed emperor; Emhyr, overstimulated and annoyed, pushing him into his bedroom. A joyful distraction, but after that he knows nothing more until the moment he wakes up in this strange, abandoned house. But he knows the most important thing now: He is, at least presumably, in Nilfgaard. And he has to go back to the palace. Back to Emhyr.   
  
At this moment three wolves break out of the undergrowth. Young, thin animals, disheveled and hungry. He would not be their usual feed, but it does not matter: it is clear that they are not a pack, they are outcasts. Three Omegas, outcast by their conspecifics, who perhaps met by chance and formed an ominous alliance. At the next opportunity they will try to bite each other off their prey, but for now they know instinctively that their chances are greater if they attack together. They lack the leader, and therefore they hesitate; the teeth bared as neck hairs shoot up. Desperate, fearful, and determined, all at once. Geralt is missing his weapon, and he can hardly stand on his feet. One of the three wolves seems to sense this, and with a jerk jumps towards him, bites his leg and throws Geralt to the ground. The other two approach, still hesitating, and the nearest growls to chase them away. All this is instinct, and suddenly it also kicks in with Geralt. His vision is blurred, because when he fell, he fell hard with the back of his head to the ground, and nearly fainted. But he bit his tongue, an ancient and painful trick, and over the pain he grabs the head of the wolf and presses his fingers into the eyes of the animal.  
This is unexpected, and the wolf howls in pain and lets go of his leg. Geralt reaches for its neck, clasping both hands around it, he presses firmly, even more firmly, and then a jerk, a crack - broken, and he hurls the wolf away with superhuman strength. The dead body hits a tree and it cracks again, then sinks limply to the ground. The other two whimper indecisively. They are so very insecure, so used to losing, that they actually back down. Geralt laboriously straightens up, ignores the dizziness and pain and gets back on his feet. To his left there is a branch, thick and big enough to serve at least halfway as a weapon, and he bends down hastily and picks it up, pushing the dangerous blackness before his eyes back with another bite of his tongue.   
  
He feels blood in his mouth and spits it out; then he draws out, ruthlessly and skilfully. The second wolf is hit by the branch on his back, and he whines and howls and tries to dodge, he grabs the stick with his teeth, but the witcher is stronger. Geralt staggers, he hears himself moaning and choking, to lift his arm alone makes him so sick. He does it anyway, he strikes again and again. The wolf tries to crawl away, but the man and the stick are unyielding, and the blows rattle on the animal until it stops moving. The third wolf has watched all this with his tail between his legs, but now he knows that he has only one chance left. He bares his teeth and growls; a last desperate threatening gesture. Geralt turns to him, slowly, almost incredulous. And he himself draws his mouth to a very similar sight and snarls, baring his teeth, and from deep within his throat comes a growl frighteningly similar to that of a wolf.   
  
At this moment he is no more than a wolf, or any other animal that has been driven into the corner and forced to defend itself. But unlike these wolves here, he is and has never been an Omega. And the wolf, the real wolf, senses this. The threat is too great, the prey is unreachable, the sacrifice not worth it. A last whimper, and its neck lowered, the gesture is clear. Geralt takes a step towards the animal, lifts the branch; and four paws twitch back in a mad dash into the forest, retreating, giving up any attempt at a fight. Geralt rams the branch into the ground, holds on to it convulsively, tries not to fall over, not to lose consciousness. The night is dark and cold and empty, the sounds are muffled and even the smells are far away and unreal.   
  
He knows who he is, he knows where to go. He just does not know where the city is. But Geralt knows one more thing: that he will keep going, no matter how much everything hurts and how confused he is. He will keep on walking, all night long, and he will find a way.

[](https://abload.de/image.php?img=1abctukun.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Punishment divine".
> 
> The wonderful art above is by [Artwinsfandoms](https://artwinsfandoms.tumblr.com).
> 
> Song for this chapter is [Another stranger me](https://open.spotify.com/track/5sik81Fbd71ePVVqHl2jZu?si=sUN6SsCtQsSIjVTVkXXodA). Yes, we already used this for [Ride into Obsession](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23357794/chapters/56667709). This is called recycling! :)


	15. There’s magic everywhere, just be aware

**\- 14 -**

**There’s magic everywhere, just be aware**

Adan certainly had some idea of how a royal hunt would be conducted, where the sole purpose seemed to be nobles' amusement. He considered this a pointless pastime, especially one that essentially presented the Emperor to a horde of armed aristocrats. The array of soldiers was undoubtedly impressive, a clear warning. But all this, the feline thought, would surely only scare away all the game from the forests that bordered the palace. The hunting party consisted of at least twenty hunters, including some ladies, about the same number of soldiers, several packhorses, a pack of hounds, and some additional human beaters. Alongside were the henchmen, including the unfortunate young girl who had been instructed to play the messenger. Now, like the others, she was assigned to walk next to the riders, to carry their bows, to calm the horses if necessary, or in the end to make sure that the shot game was transported safely.  
  
Apparently, a battue was planned, with the unique challenge that hunting was only allowed with bow and arrow. Adan saw at least one man who looked at these weapons with some skepticism; moreover, most of the other participants seemed at least somewhat familiar with them. He did not find this incredibly reassuring, because once the hunters had spread out, arrow shots would be hard to prevent. However, this was true for any weapon that was chosen - and Adan found himself bordering on paranoid. On the other hand, he had suddenly become the Emperor's personal bodyguard, and he intended to take this task seriously given the newer developments concerning Geralt.  
  
The effort of the whole thing astonished Adan. So many people, so much hullabaloo; and they seemed to treat the whole thing as a kind of game - they were not hunting for the meat alone, which would undoubtedly be on the tables in the course of this evening or even the next few days, depending on how successful they would be. It seemed, above all, to be a form of seeing and being seen. Everybody seemed overdressed, although it was evident that they were wearing hunting garments. The clothing of each was strikingly elegant, the exquisite materials stood out, the decorations were aesthetically matching Nilfgaardian colors. To a certain extent, it was thoroughly functional clothing, only of a kind that was intended to emphasize the rank and status of their respective wearers.  
  
The Emperor himself was no exception: he wore pants of brushed leather colored pitch black, topped with a high-necked, close fitting jacket in the same hue. Both pieces were decorated with finely woven lateral stripes in gold and white. On the back of the coat, masterly crafted embroideries formed the typical Nilfgaardian sun. That alone made him stand out from the crowd, but his whole appearance radiated something strangely attractive. Even Adan couldn't escape the sight of him. Emhyr was tall anyway, but he sat very upright in the saddle of his magnificent dun horse. He seemed to tower above most of the others present, and if not by size alone, by pride and grace. He held the reins with a light hand, like someone who knew exactly how to lead a horse. All eyes were on him, and not only because he was the one who would give the signal at the beginning of the hunt. It was his sheer presence, not just his position, that ensured that he attracted attention at every moment. It was easy to imagine that this might have always been the case, but here the feline was a little off track because he did not know Emhyr's exact story - very few did.  
  
The fact that he didn't actually want to be here was not apparent to anyone. His face rarely revealed anything he didn't want to show, that much had become clear to Adan after half a year. Emhyr's cool gaze seemed to fixate on each and every one of those present, yet at the same time seemed to glide over them; as if he were assessing them all and finding that they were not quite worthy of his attention - and yet they were all trying to gain exactly that. That was, as Adan realized, a game all its own. Even though he didn't know the participants, he knew enough to see that among them was at most one or two dukes, if at all. The whole event seemed to serve, among other things, to assure the loyalty of the lower nobility - in equal measure, a display of the superiority of the empire and the desirability of belonging within it. Judging by their clothing - assuming they had not gone into debt for it - they were a wealthy nobility. Rank did not exactly bring prosperity, apparently these very people were invited to the hunt to remind them that their financial position had to do with the fact that they were part of a complex and large empire. Some knights belonged to this class, and almost all higher court officials were recruited from the lower nobility. It seemed to be a matter of giving them a feeling of recognition for their services, and at the same time, pointing out to whom they owed it. A game, and a clever one at that. This wedding might be without outside influence, but that did not mean that Emhyr didn't know how to use it to his political advantage. These people were like cogs - essential for functioning, but not too difficult to replace. They also lubricated the machine with information and rumors, which was probably another reason why Emhyr did not cancel this event.  
  
Adan, with his horse close to the Emperor, followed his gaze but was nevertheless surprised when he was addressed.   
"The tall, stiff man in green on the mare," Emhyr said quietly. "Who is he?"  
He had recognized in him the same man who had stared at him blatantly - and extremely disparagingly - at dinner. Emhyr had the feeling that the face looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't really place it. The only noticeable thing was that the man was still looking gloomy. In addition, he seemed to have successfully chased away all helpers who had to take care of the horse and equipment.  
"How should I know?" The witcher began, but an ice-cold look told him that he was better off finding out. Adan just nodded, drove his horse, and slowly trotted away. He had hoped he had a little more time, but at that moment, Emhyr raised his hand. Every sound, no matter how small, died away instantly. A woman appeared behind him on foot, dressed in a green hunting suit and a bold hat on her bright red hair. Her striking appearance had a purpose; she carried a hunting horn in her hand - both ensured that she could not be overlooked by those present. After a brief exchange of glances with the Emperor, she lifted the instrument to her mouth. A small melody sounded. Apparently, the participants of the hunt were expected to know its meaning; Adan assumed that it was some kind of greeting.  
  
The Emperor addressed a few words to the crowd; it was almost ridiculous how much they hung on his lips. Adan seized the moment and did some research, which essentially meant adding another one to the footmen's tasks. However, there was little time, for Emhyr had hardly finished his little speech when the woman with the horn played another sequence of notes. Thereupon, the more experienced among the hunting guests already reached for the arrows, while others, who had to concentrate on leading their horses first, rode slowly forward. Adan cursed quietly, when he noticed that Emhyr was now also starting to move, although he obviously did not intend to play an active role in the whole thing - he did not have a bow with him, no servant was walking beside him. Was he supposed to be a kind of talisman that promised hunting luck? The whole concept was confusing to Adan.  
  
No sooner had he caught up with Emhyr than the latter asked, "What did you find out?"  
"Nothing yet, none of the footmen I could ask know him."  
"Then ask someone else," Emhyr replied with a stern look ahead.  
"I can't watch out here and find out who the guy is at the same time." That sounded a bit sharper than intended, but instead of an instant response, the feline received an almost amused look.  
"According to certain reports, one of the few things witchers of the cat school are not able to do seems to be to be in two places at once," Emhyr finally replied complacently. "However, I did not ask you to do that. Six soldiers are riding with me, as you may have noticed. That will be enough for now."  
Adan declined to comment on why Emhyr felt it was necessary to add a witcher to these six soldiers - the answer probably had as much to do with politics and presence as the whole event.

_No idea what the two find in each other_ , he thought as he let the horse pull out to the side again. In the meantime, the hunt was in full swing, although Adan found its course extremely strange. The hunters did not enter the forest on their own, they seemed to form a kind of formation, occasionally instructed by the servants on foot. The hounds were let loose, the beaters hit the undergrowth, and the mounted ones slowly followed. Obviously, the feline concluded, the purpose of this was to drive the game out of its hiding places to be shot from the horse with some comfort. The fact that only bow and arrow could be used was probably intended to convey a touch of elegance and increase the challenge. However, the forest was a challenge in itself. It made it difficult to permanently maintain the invisible line that the riders formed. Adan found this somewhat disconcerting since the Emperor was practically in the middle of everything, albeit a bit behind all the hunters.  
  
He spurred the horse on when he spotted a somewhat plump boy falling behind the other footmen. The juvenile was carrying a heavy-looking bag on his back, apparently the luggage of one of the riders, and hurried, puffing away, to follow the field. "Hey, boy," Adan addressed him, and the kid almost stumbled in surprise. He turned around, obviously in fear of seeing his master - for whom he was carrying the luggage - and was visibly relieved that this was not the case. However, the sight of an elven witcher in armor and with swords on his back - a special excuse for the occasion and the purpose - was not very reassuring. Even the knights wore hunting clothes, and only the soldiers were allowed swords, neither in the whole palace nor during this hunt.  
  
Adan faked a smile.  
"Have I done something wrong?" the boy asked somewhat timidly.  
"Not at all. I hope you can help me."  
"I should hurry, the master will miss me already," the boy replied uncertainly.  
"Who is your master?"  
"Enrik de Groot, sir," said the boy, and because of his age, he could not prevent an expression of genuine disgust from flashing across his face.  
"Say that again?" Adan replied, stunned. " _Enrik de Groot_ is taking part in this hunt?"  
The kid nodded. "I was only instructed this morning to be at his service. It is an honor to be present at the hunt, sir."  
"What do you mean, _only_ this morning?" Adan followed up. "Is that unusual?"  
The boy trod restlessly from one foot to the other.  
"Certainly, sir. The guest list has been in place for a long time. It was planned weeks ago, who was to serve whom. I’m still too young for... well, anyway, there was probably a change in the line-up for the hunt. Really, sir, I should now ... may I go?"  
He was visibly nervous and afraid of falling out of favor with his master.  
"Wait. What does he look like, this Enrik de Groot?"  
The child noisily expelled air and then hastily replied, "He wears a green robe, has dark, slightly longer hair, and is riding a mare." Then he simply ran away as quickly as his thick legs carried him and did not look back for the feline again.   
  
This description was anything but exhaustive, but for now, it had to suffice. A dull, uncomfortable feeling took hold of Adan as he rode back and approached Emhyr again. "Apparently, this is Enrik de Groot," he said in response to the commanding gaze.  
Emhyr frowned. "The mage?"  
Adan shrugged. "This is your party, but I don't think it's a very good idea..."  
"This is not a hunt for mages," Emhyr replied sharply, and the emphasis of the last word almost sounded as if he was talking about something particularly disgusting.  
"I hope so," Adan said in a soothing tone. "Listen, this may not be the best time, but the fact that this sorcerer is participating in the hunt..."  
Emhyr interrupted him quickly, he spoke almost feverishly.  
"Find out who is responsible for him being here. Did he take someone else's place? Is he even on the guestlist for the wedding?"  
"He's not, but..."  
  
The witcher did not get the chance to say what he had learned from Birke and what worries the latter had. Emhyr noticed that the feline's facial expression changed abruptly. Suddenly he tore one of his swords from the sheath on his back, bent forward in the saddle as if he wanted to jump over the head of his horse, and stretched the blade out. The soldiers surrounding the Emperor were far too slow to react, and what followed was something that probably only a witcher could do.  
Seemingly out of nowhere, an arrow flew in Emhyr's direction, so fast that he couldn't even perceive it until it almost reached him. At the very moment he even realized what was happening, Adan's sword had repulsed the flight of the arrow. With a metallic sound, the tip bounced off the witcher's blade, and it was only thanks to Adan's excellent responsiveness that the recoil did not actually get him off the horse. However, he had to hold on to the mane with his left hand, which was acknowledged with a protesting neigh.  
  
A second or two later, the soldiers had also realized what had happened. The ones in front turned to the Emperor in shock. The commanding officer immediately ordered the formation around the Emperor to tighten. Emhyr only needed to look at Adan to make him understand what he wanted him to do - namely to find out where that arrow had come from. But this proved to be more difficult than expected. Adan was able to determine the direction, but the hunters had dispersed; their imaginary line for the hunt had been challenging to maintain.  
No one had noticed this attack, and there were too many hoof prints to have any useable information. No one could say where de Groot had ridden to. His appearance was not necessarily very noticeable. None of the scattered riders seemed to know him or have paid any attention to him. In the end, there was no way of knowing whether the arrow had just happened to fly in the wrong direction. There was a good chance that one of the less experienced archers had quickly moved away after realizing his mistake.  
  
Adan told Emhyr about this, but he just snorted scornfully. "They must fear that this will cost them their heads, it would be most understandable if they hid."  
"Are you calling off the hunt?" asked the feline, but Emhyr shook his head. A signal sounded from some distance, the horn again, and Emhyr said, "That means the small game has been shot. It's a bad time, you don't stop until someone has shot at least one fallow deer."  
Adan found this a strange statement, considering that the safety of the Emperor was at stake. Still, in the end, he probably understood too little about the matter. "We will treat this as an unfortunate coincidence for now," Emhyr continued. "Stay close to me from now on and keep your eyes open. What happened earlier was ... gratifying." That too was a strange remark, obviously meant as a compliment.  
So the feline returned to his original position, even more alert than before, and the hunt continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Straight through the mirror". 
> 
> I was actually torn about commissioning Emhyr in this chapter or Geralt in the last one, which has obviously won ;)


	16. The deeper the wounds, so much greater the sorrows will grow

**\- 15 -**

**The deeper the wounds, so much greater the sorrows will grow**

There were no further incidents. Adan was alert to the point of slight nervousness, while Emhyr seemed utterly unimpressed by the potential threat. There was no opportunity to bring up the matter with the mage again - the soldiers formed a tight unit, and the subject was not meant for their ears. There was only one more occasion for the formation to break up briefly. Yet, Adan couldn't stay right next to Emhyr then to avoid stirring up unnecessary rumors - his presence must have seemed strange anyway. After several more horn signals, the Emperor gave another short speech, and the hunt was officially ended. If they were not staying with their temporary masters anyway, the footmen assigned to the individual hunters led them out of the forest into the open field. There was an apparently traditional ceremony with a new horn sound, the lining up of the prey, and a champion marksman's crowning. In this case a markswoman, because the best yield had been achieved by an elderly lady, looking very proud. All in all, Adan found it annoying, time-consuming, and overloaded with some strange symbolism.  
  
As for Emhyr, he had shut down internally all the time, except for the moment when the feline saved him from the arrow, which may or may not has been accidental. He functioned automatically because he had to. Besides, he was used to it. But he was tired, and underneath it all lay subliminal worry and restlessness. He was less concerned about the potential attack than he perhaps should have been. For the time being, all that mattered was that it had been thwarted. Of course, Emhyr was aware that this was not enough. Even though no one had seen the attack, and even though he claimed to dismiss it as an unfortunate coincidence for the time being, he did not. He could not afford to do so. So, he would deal with it in due course, even if it was only theoretical. Emhyr believed the feline - if he could find no evidence, there was none. Still, Emhyr had to think about what the mage was doing in the palace - and why he had possessed the audacity to infiltrate the hunting party.  
  
Emhyr had reviewed the guest list very carefully; besides, he had taken the trouble to compile much of it himself. Mages had been found on it only insofar as it was necessary. Of course, this meant that he had to invite the Nilfgaardian academies' heads if he did not want to annoy them ultimately. Furthermore, only those sorceresses were invited who Geralt called his personal friends. In general, all persons whose presence Geralt had insisted on showed an extraordinary mixture. They had both joked that the meeting of Kings, Dukes, and the high nobility with witchers and once ostracized sorceresses was scandalous enough to make the wedding a topic of conversation for months. The fact that there would then unknowingly be a vampire - Regis - among them was, so to speak, the icing on the cake. However, Geralt found that the presence of a famous bard would reconcile many with the guest list. He was probably right, possibly except for Emhyr's infamous cousin Anna-Henrietta.  
  
He remembered this conversation as if it had been yesterday. Even if he did not want to, the memory overwhelmed him with power, while the hunting party steered their horses back to the palace. It was an automatism in which he had nothing to do; the horse knew the way, Emhyr’s hands held the reins practically only to keep them busy. It might have been only the tiredness that was firmly stuck behind his eyes, but his thoughts drifted away to that night. The summer heat had finally reached Vizima, and it even managed to break through the thick walls of the old palace. He remembered their entwined naked bodies, the rumpled sheets, the sticky moisture of a hot evening. The lightness of the words, the anticipation, the amazement that this would become a reality. Intertwined hands. A face, softened by an unreal, pinkish sunset that bathed the room in a mysterious light. The laughter. The love. Those were beautiful memories at the totally wrong time, and they hurt him.  
  
He still hoped that Merigold and the witchers have achieved something, but he had to get through another dinner before he got the chance to talk to them. This time the mage was not present at the table, and Emhyr wondered if this has something to do with the misguided arrow or not. He still did not know why de Groot was here at all, but he suspected (quite correctly) that he had come as a deputy for the academy's head. If that was the case, he would have to accept it. Emhyr was aware that he had angered the mages of Nilfgaard, and he must not let this turn into a fragile power structure. He would have to ensure that the mages continued to consider themselves essential and make appropriate concessions to them. Yet, at the same time, he had to prevent them from seeing his future marriage as a weakness to be exploited. It was a dance on the ice, but it always has been, and he knew he could handle it. As soon as he cleared his head. As soon as he received news. As soon as he would get Geralt back.

  


He ordered them - including Adan - into his study. The latter had once again proved his value to him, even if Emhyr was still bothered by the elf’s strange nature. It was an inconspicuous, ordinary meeting that would not cause a stir. He was tired of the questions, at dinner, at seemingly random encounters in the corridors. It became increasingly difficult to explain why Geralt was always absent. Why, of all times, he had to complete a supposedly critical mission now, so shortly before the wedding.  
But Emhyr saw that his hopes were dashed as soon as Ciri, the sorceress, and the witchers entered the room. It could be clearly read on their faces, the helplessness, the hopelessness. Feelings that Emhyr also experienced but could not allow himself to show.  
  
"We have nothing," he said after Triss explained what they had done and where the trail had led them. He stated this fact very rationally, yet inside he was anything but calm. "Nothing but the hope that the vampire will come forward," the sorceress admitted. She watched his face closely as if she was trying to read more in it than he would reveal. Emhyr was aware of the unpleasant fact that the sorceress could have read his mind if she wanted to. He was also aware, however, that she would not do so. Not for her own sake, but because it would not be her style - she had only served him for a short time, but his knowledge of human nature had always been excellent. Although he had to admit to himself that the concept of serving may not be entirely applicable in this case. She was not the first sorceress who subtly dared to defy him. But she may have been the first to whom he allowed a large part of it. And that too was, once again, Geralt's merit.  
  
"Nevertheless, we believe that Geralt is still alive," Eskel said. His voice had something strangely soothing about it, but his words did not have that effect on Emhyr. He heard that they believed but did not know, and in the end, this was uncertainty that could mean many things, from captivity to brutal torture.  
"If he does not come forward, this can only mean that he wants to prevent the wedding," Lambert now said. The witcher with the most cynicism in his voice was surprisingly calm for a man who would rather act than stand around discussing tactics and strategies.  
"What reason would he have? Late revenge seems a strange motive to me - then he would have been better off getting me," Ciri said grimly.  
"Strange or not, he is obviously interested in fooling us," replied Triss. "It's possible he's formed a new alliance. There would certainly be some parties who would understand how to use the scandal of a canceled wedding to their advantage."  
For a moment, those present let this theory take effect. It was a thought that did not seem completely absurd. Whether it was out of sheer revenge or because the vampire continued to pursue his crazy goal was not significant at the time being.  
  
Out of pure habit, Emhyr had taken a seat behind his desk. He suppressed the thought that Geralt might have made a remark about that piece of furniture - because if he found the table in Vizima already exaggerated, he would have loved this oversized symbol of business acumen. Right now, Emhyr was on the verge of hitting the solid tabletop with his fist. "Is there no way to contact the other vampire?" he finally asked.  
"Regis?" Triss replied immediately. "We could try to establish a connection via raven birds. But as I said, I doubt he could speed up his journey without acting too conspicuously. And as much as he will be willing to help Geralt, there are too many variables..."  
Adan, who had been silent the whole time, suddenly stepped forward and said, "We may have another problem."  
"The mage shouldn't be a big problem. He won't try something like this again," Emhyr replied absently. His words produced visible amazement, and Adan was prompted to explain the matter. The announcement of the alleged attack increases the tension in the room.  
  
"Surely no one seriously believes that this was an accidental, misguided arrow," Ciri said, her voice a mixture of concern and anger.  
"No," her father replied calmly. "But at least this is something we can do something about. You can all keep your eyes open. We need information about this de Groot. Discreetly sourced information." One look at Adan was enough. He nodded, barely noticeable as an uncomfortable mood spread throughout the room.   
"Doesn't anyone but me find it strange that this one should be sneaking around? After all, he's a witcher," Ciri asked after this with blatant skepticism in her voice. "Who else, but a feline could do that?" Lambert, of all people, replied surprisingly mildly. Even Eskel gave him a wry look. But in the end, Lambert was probably the one who had the most experience with cat school witchers.  
  
Adan took this all calmly. Even though Emhyr was amazingly absent - he almost felt like he was sleeping with his eyes open - he was overcome with insight. This witcher was a solid rock when it mattered. Rumor had it that he should blow with the wind, but that was not the case, not at all. Emhyr had dealt only little with the different witcher schools' peculiarities as not much was known about them. Even Geralt could not provide much information here - or did not want to, because it seemed like it. But he was aware that - at least during their prime - they seldom shied away from serving politics, contrary to the general view. It was something he wanted to keep in mind, but right now, it was not important.  
  
Adan hesitated briefly. It would have been the right moment to tell about his encounter with the assassin. The information that de Groot made it onto the guest list as deputy head of the academy appears in a new light after the incident on the hunt. And he should report on the assassin's concerns. Adan was reluctant to do this in front of all the others - not because he did not trust them; he basically trusted no one, it was a fundamental trait. Educated, if you will. But the matter still seemed nebulous to him, despite the supposed attack. Just when he had decided to open his mouth and tell about Birke, Emhyr stood up. With his hands resting on the tabletop, he looked tired in the candlelight, perhaps even at a loss for a moment. Night fell, and everyone realized that time was running out.  
"For the time being, we will continue as planned," said Emhyr in a low voice.  
"I'm putting a protective spell over your chambers," Triss replied resolutely, "We can't increase the guards without producing questions."  
"I think we should act." Ciri's face was grim.  
Eskel frowned and, in a familiar gesture, put a hand on her arm, but she didn't notice. "I'll notify Yen to come early."  
"What's the point? You'll only upset one more person," Triss gave softly to consider.  
"You have no idea! Maybe she is willing to use different magic than you," Ciri snapped.  
"Enough." Emhyr's voice was soft, dangerously so, and even those in the room who didn't know him well enough recognized that this was not a good sign. "I'll listen in the morning if anyone thinks magic is a solution." Since most people knew how he felt about magic, that was a striking remark. "Until then, find out what is known about de Groot. Maybe there's a connection to this vampire." With these words, he straightened, nodded vaguely into the room, and walked firmly to the door. "Papa," Ciri said, and for a moment, it was clearly visible how he was stiffening. But he did not turn around again, and she did not finish her sentence.

  


Back in his chambers, he closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, as if he first had to find the strength to face the environment. Then he froze. The fireplace on the wall had been lit. The nights became chilly, the early autumn quickly cooled the walls of the palace. As if the glow of the fire was not enough to indicate that someone had been in the room, it mercilessly illuminated the change. The disorder had been removed. Everything was clean; the floor was shining, clear, and without blood. Emhyr felt his jaw muscles harden. He took a step into the room as if he could not believe what he saw. His thoughts turned over in his mind. Had he forgotten to order that no one should enter the room? Had he given orders that had not been obeyed? He felt anger rising within himself. But the apparent thought that now someone else knew that something must have happened in those rooms was utterly unimportant. Sure, he would have to make sure that no rumors were spread among the servants. He didn't even think that he would have to punish anyone - deep down, he knew that he had made this mistake himself. Too distracted, too tired, and too confused, he had made a mistake. It was a small weakness, probably without much impact. And that was not what occupied him. He was angry, yes. But not at those who had cleaned the room and removed the traces. He was mad at himself, and he was furious because the signs of struggle had disappeared. Deep down, he knew these thoughts were ridiculous, but something drove him into the bedroom. The drops of blood had disappeared, of course; everything was clean here, too. Even the bed had fresh sheets. For some reason, this was the worst of all. Emhyr felt something rise inside him, a sound, almost a growl, but he prevented it from reaching his throat. He went back into the other room and took the damn vase that was back on the side table, filled with fresh flowers. For a moment, he held it in his hand, this massive, marble piece. For some reason, the servants had overlooked the blood at the opening. It was easy to overlook, too - now it was just a dark stain that merged into the vase's filigree pattern.  
  
With blatant rage, he reached out and threw the vase at the door. It broke - why did it break now? The sound echoed in his ears, but at the same time, he heard nothing. He saw the shards scattered on the floor. Flowers stuck to the wet door and slid slowly down it, scattered in the puddle of water and shards and blossoms on the floor. But that was just water. It was not blood.  
The door was ripped open from the other side, and the guards, alarmed and with one hand on their weapon, suddenly stood on the threshold.  
"Your Imperial Majesty," one of them began hesitantly after it was clear at a glance that he was alone and obviously in no danger.  
Emhyr made a vague gesture. "Someone clean this up," he said quietly, and without further explanation, he went to his bedchamber and closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Doom". 
> 
> Song for this chapter is ["Tears of the dragon"](https://open.spotify.com/track/64og4LmCUQRq4wvZeMdKdh?si=wBP9iWCYSeuMa60_lNMLBA), Bruce Dickinson.


	17. There is calm before the storm

**\- 16 -**

**There is calm before the storm**

They had called it ‘sneaking around’, which Adan found somewhat of an exaggeration. Of course, he used the shadows in the corridors, and he walked in the passages where hardly anyone could be found. But you didn't achieve much by just sneaking around. Information was the business, and it was not available in the dark - at least not very often. These weren't the gloomy quarters of some filthy city, maybe even one where you'd better put a hood over your head if you looked any different than the rest.  
  
And yet the imperial palace was a place of secrecy and rumors. The stories that were told were rarely different from those that were spread in cheap taverns - they were perhaps just uttered in less coarse and vivid ways. By day, the place was an excited henhouse, where sometimes it was all about who had laid the first or perhaps the most beautiful egg. Things spread from top to bottom and vice versa: the secret affair of a noblewoman, picked up by her maid, soon was the talk of the kitchen, and from there, it spread back up to the ladies’ dressing rooms - in the worst case to a cuckolded wife. In the late evening, the shadows might have grown longer and the conversations quieter, but the question of ‘who with whom’ did not stop there. On the contrary, and most courtiers knew this very well and paid attention when they jumped into beds not belonging to themselves.  
  
Adan, however, was not interested in the love lives of the palace. Incidentally, he was more than tolerant in this respect - after all, he himself had to exercise some caution. What interested him were small details that, if the right questions were asked, would not arouse suspicion. He would seem harmless, bordering friendly, to his interlocutors as if he was making small talk. Contrary to his inability to see through human behavior completely - a flaw which for once was not due to the chaotic education of the cat school, but to his elven heritage - Adan had a certain charm. He had noticed early on that his flawless skin and, for some reason, his curly hair made many people, especially women, forget that he was an elf. By human standards, Adan was quite handsome, which apparently raised the tolerance level for many enormously. It was just another human weakness, and he had no qualms about exploiting it. Still, it was not as easy as expected to find out where the mage's rooms were located. Apparently, this change in the guest list had been made at very short notice, and the poor soul who was coordinating all this had been thrown off course by the change. Everything had to be double and triple secured, inquiries with intelligence were necessary. Since de Groot's preferences were not known, all arrangements that had been made for his superior had to be changed at the last minute.  
  
Strange enough, this information had not reached the Emperor himself. Apparently, de Groot had arrived in Nilfgaard only a few hours before him, but by teleport, which only added to the palace's hectic rush. With all this thoroughly coordinated planning, Adan still thought it unlikely that Emhyr would not have been informed, even if there had been a surprising change. The Emperor's aversion to mages was common knowledge, even if Merigold's appointment as his new court sorceress had been a somewhat scandalous surprise. It was also known that he would not necessarily tolerate last-minute changes in procedures. Especially not when it came to the somewhat sensitive subject of Nilfgaardian mages. So why he had been kept in the dark about de Groot's arrival was one of the many mysteries the feline had to solve.

  


The wing in which de Groot was housed was not difficult to reach or far away. Nevertheless, it took Adan a while to get there as he searched for news about the mage. His delay, however, was mostly fruitless: hardly anyone had anything useful to say about de Groot. When it came to making himself unassailable against gossip, de Groot had clearly mastered it. He was so inconspicuous that he appeared to be almost meaningless. Despite the certain turmoil that his unannounced arrival had caused, he had quickly left the memory of the palace. Whenever a maid wanted to clean his rooms, he was never present. Apparently, his chambers revealed absolutely nothing personal about him. He did not leave anything lying around. He left no mess or dirt behind. When asked about de Groot, most faces stayed empty, as if neither his name nor the description of his appearance was memorable. It was almost as if he had put a spell around himself to convince those around him of his harmlessness. Adan did not find this thought entirely absurd and decided to keep it in mind and ask Triss about it later.  
  
Finding out if de Groot was in his chambers was almost as easy as getting in. A stray tray from the kitchen topped with a second supper found its way to de Groot's door on a maid's hand. Even after knocking several times, it did not open. That alone was no proof that he was not there. Still, when Adan pressed himself against the door in an unobserved moment shortly after the maid disappeared, no sound was heard from inside. This might mean that he was simply very quiet or already asleep, but not even turning the pages of a book would have escaped Adan, and the night was too young to go to bed just yet. A simple sample with a lock pick revealed no key on the other side of the door lock. It was an easy deduction: no reaction, no noise, no key. It would have been even better to find out where de Groot was now to estimate when he would return. But Adan thought that was one of the minor problems. A glance to either side of the corridor, a few moves: the door opened silently into a deep dark room.  
  
The interior resembled most of the palace's guest rooms; spacious and tastefully furnished, the sleeping quarters sat in a separate small adjoining space. Although Adan had been assured that all the rooms had already been visited by servants, there was no fire lit in the fireplace. It was obligatory to provide the guests with warmth and light as when they returned from dinner, guests required comfortable rooms. These were indeed the words of an enthusiastic maid. She, like many here, was astonishingly proud to work in the imperial palace. But even without fire and light, Adan saw enough - and on the other hand, too little. Because the room was indeed meaningless. All the details that usually make up the inhabitant were missing. No books, carelessly left lying around on pages just read. No garments, thoughtlessly thrown across a chair. Not a single piece of furniture moved or otherwise touched, as one does when searching through an unfamiliar room and trying to make it one's temporary home.  
  
Everything here was a blank sheet, like de Groot himself. His sleeping chamber was no exception. It almost seemed as if he had traveled entirely without luggage. Under the bed, Adan found a chest, this lifted his spirits for a moment. The first real sign that de Groot was not just a strange phantom. Even a mage must store his underwear somewhere, Adan thought, and found this quite amusing. The heavy wooden chest was completely undecorated, as unpretentious as de Groot himself, but secured with a massive lock. Adan did not hear the footsteps approaching the door. He was too busy trying to figure out if the chest was secured with a spell or if he should try his luck with a lock pick. Only when the entrance door to the chambers opened did the feline realize that he was in trouble. But he was fast, very fast. Before the door closed and the presence of a second person in the other room became clear, he had pushed the chest silently back under the bed and had, with some effort, crawled under it himself. The chest already took up some space, but he made himself as small as he could, pressing his body tightly against the wall at the end of the bed, and listened with bated breath to what was going on in the other room.  
  
De Groot stood briefly by the front door, then footsteps could be heard. He walked through the room, but he did not light the fire - had he forgotten something, did he want to get something quickly and leave? Adan already believed that this was the case, as the footsteps approached the door to the bedroom. Adan had closed it again after he had entered; it was a simple precaution to make sure that if the occupant suddenly came back, everything would look the same as it did when he left. So, the door was closed, and Adan heard the footsteps approaching it. Then they stopped abruptly. De Groot seemed to hesitate. He was squeezed under the bed, hidden behind the box, and dust rose into the feline's nose. He slapped his hand in front of his mouth.  
  
The door opened, and de Groot took a single step into the room. Then he hesitated again. Adan inhaled the smell of the leather of his own gloves, his exhalation barely moving his chest. He breathed so shallowly that his head began to throb. Dizziness announced itself; he was about to lose consciousness. He forced his breath to rest, but the lack of space and the dust in the air did not make things any better. De Groot was now standing right in front of the bed, and with a jerk he bent down and grabbed the box underneath. Elegant brown footwear was all Adan could see of the mage. He was in an almost meditative state - even another witcher would hardly be able to perceive him now. Still, he was indeed running out of air. But de Groot did not look further under the bed. He touched the chest, then he whispered something so softly that Adan couldn't hear it even from his position. What his oxygen-deficient mind was slowly picking up, with his brain barely capable of thinking, was above all this: he would not be able to open the chest. It was protected by magic.  
  
But whatever his spell was supposed to do, the mage didn't open the chest either. Instead, de Groot pushed it back under the bed. Adan pressed himself even closer to the wall - the chest came dangerously close to him; one more inch and de Groot would have noticed the resistance - and thus the feline. Against all the odds, this did not happen. De Groot disappeared from the room as quickly as he had arrived, and it was only when he heard the front door clearly close that Adan took his hand from his mouth and exhaled. For a moment, the witcher had to control his breath very carefully while the light fog in his head cleared, and Adan could think straight again. It was time to disappear; he would not find out anything more here. With difficulty, he crawled out from under the bed into the darkness of the room again, carefully avoiding the chest. Whatever the mage might have done, the object might have been now not only locked, but also secured in some other way.  
  
No sooner had he left de Groot's rooms behind him - after he had made sure several times that no one was around - Adan decided to pay Birke another visit. The assassin was not particularly pleased with the new developments. He received the news of the possible attack during the hunt with a worried, furrowed look. He had already been concerned when hearing about the very reason Adan demanded a map from him. "You only have to put two and two together," he had said that evening. But Adan didn't find the idea that Geralt's disappearance and the mage's unplanned presence were connected so obviously.

When Birke heard of Adan's intrusion into the mage's private chambers, he almost got enraged.  
"Such a thing is no matter for amateurs," he scolded. "With such nonsense, you are not only putting yourself in danger."  
"Amateur is not exactly the term I would use," Adan replied sharply. Birke performed a signature repellent gesture.  
"And what did it get you? Nothing. We know as little as before. Frankly, that's exactly what's suspicious."  
"Why?"  
Birke's face looked older in the dim light of his attic room than it was. Perhaps it was not only the years that weighed on him but also the responsibility. Slowly he approached the window and pointed into the distance. "Down there lies Nilfgaard," he finally said. "The largest city this side of the Jaruga. And yet so small when it comes to what I need to know about it. I know everything I need to know about everyone I want to know about if I want to. Not only here in the palace, oh no. Everyone leaves traces, everyone has a life, secrets, preferences, dreams ... If there is nothing like that, then this person simply does not live."  
  
That sounded highly dramatic for Adan's taste, but in the end, he understood what the assassin wanted to say. "De Groot clearly has something to hide," Birke continued. "And the arrow incident was certainly no accident."  
"There is no proof," the feline said.  
"Of course not," Birke returned with a slight impatience in his voice. "He's too smart for that. But I am sure he is planning something. He acts inconspicuously, but too inconspicuously. Have you told the Emperor about this?"  
"I haven't had a chance," Adan admitted. "Besides, he doesn't seem particularly receptive to that problem right now."  
Birke's fingers drummed thoughtfully on his chin. "We'll have to do something," he finally said.  
"Well, all right, but what?"  
"If necessary, the mage must disappear," the assassin replied calmly.  
Adan raised his hands defensively. "I'm open to crazy ideas, but we can't attack de Groot without proof."  
"I wasn't talking about attacking him."  
"To eliminate him in secret is not much better," Adan said sharply. "We are talking about a high-ranking mage from a Nilfgaardian academy."  
"Oh, suddenly, a witcher who worries about politics?"  
The sarcasm bounced off Adan. "I know at least enough about politics not to underestimate the impact of even the smallest action," he retorted. "And to be honest, this matter is extremely vague. I am all in for watching the mage, for keeping an eye on him. But for now, I think it is more important that one of the main characters of this funny little wedding reappears."  
"You don't see the connection?"  
"Not yet directly," Adan said.  
Birke’s face was shadowed briefly. "I have to think about it," he finally said. "But I tell you one thing: If the Emperor doesn't take this matter seriously soon, I'll take it into my own hands."  
And that sounded like a threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "In the red dwarf's tower"


	18. Let’s hold on to the dream

**\- 17 -**

**Let’s hold on to the dream**

_\- The palace of Nilfgaard, 4 days to the imperial wedding -_

Although the fatigue lay heavy as lead on him, Emhyr knew he was in for another sleepless night. He did not even bother to undress and lay on the bed in his clothes, his eyes piercing through the darkness, staring blankly at the ceiling. Time passed painfully slow, as it always did for those whose worries displaced all other thoughts. Emhyr made every effort to focus his mind on other things; he recited tomorrow's agenda in his mind, thought about what tasks he could delegate, where he could buy time. It did not help much. Again and again, his treacherous brain wondered what the vampire was up to and if there was a connection to de Groot. The latter might have sneaked into the palace under brazen pretext, agreed upon with the academy's head. But that alone made him neither suspicious nor a possible accomplice of a higher vampire - the idea seemed almost absurd.  
  
His thoughts went around in circles, and he could not fully concentrate on any of them. He nearly got up, even if only to walk around restlessly, but his body felt so heavy, and the desperation behind his eyes was overwhelming. At some point, Emhyr must have dozed off despite everything. Still, he was in a state of constant alarm: deep sleep was not possible, he repeatedly became uncomfortably aware of his own body and drifted in between states of dreaming and wakefulness. When there was a knock on the door, he almost immediately woke and suddenly straigthened. A glance out of the window told him that it was still the deepest of night. The knocking was repeated, more urgent now. A low voice could be heard.  
"Your Imperial Majesty!" Whoever it was, they were standing right outside his bedroom door. In a state between rising annoyance and irritation, Emhyr stood up. He opened the door with a look on his face that must have been a clear warning to anyone who dared to get him out of bed at this hour.  
  
In front of him stood a tall, bearded soldier, a Captain by badge, and Emhyr vaguely remembered his face, though he could not recall the name. But he was aware that the man commanded a regiment of the Impera Brigade and was, therefore, primarily responsible for military operations around the palace. The fact that he was standing at his door - _bedroom_ door - in the middle of the night certainly meant nothing good. Emhyr quickly thought about the possibilities: a riot in the city, an attack on the palace? It all seemed far-fetched.  
  
Prepared for the worst, the man's words surprised Emhyr. "Your Majesty, there is something... you should see." The Captain spoke hesitantly, but with respect. His words did not evoke fear of the Emperor or his possible wrath, but sincere concern.  
"What is it?" Emhyr snapped, extraordinarily irritated and bewildered that the man didn't come out with the message right away.  
The Captain, all soldier, did not even blink. "It is… a delicate matter. I have come personally to maintain the utmost discretion. I beg you to follow me, for the walls have ears."  
There was something in the man's voice that made Emhyr feel the urgency of the matter, even if his words seemed to make no sense at first. Against his better judgment, Emhyr nodded narrowly and gestured to the soldier to go ahead.  
"I warn you," he said, "if this turns out to be nonsense, it will have serious consequences. I'm not in the mood for any petty squabbles among the guests, if that's what this is all about. We are planning a wedding here, for crying out loud."  
The Captain took the rant calmly, while he led him through the corridors. They were just passing through one of the rear exits when he replied, "That is exactly the point, Your Majesty… I think." This remark was so cryptic that Emhyr preferred not to respond.  
  
They left the palace through one of the entrances that led to the rear courtyard. The crunch of boots on the gravel was unbearably loud in Emhyr's ears; he wanted this to end. The Captain was strangely quiet, so perhaps it wasn't a matter of extreme need - neither did the stables burn, nor did Emhyr assume that anyone had died. Back there, only a few torches lit the way, and Emhyr recognized where the path led: to one of the rear gates, an entrance for suppliers and messengers. Only a few steps away from the gate, the Captain suddenly stopped and looked at Emhyr seriously.  
"Your Majesty... the guards at this gate alarmed me because they did not know what to do. And to be honest, it was probably the best thing that could have happened to us, because I don't know what their immediate superior would have done - who happens to be off duty tonight."  
Emhyr breathed deeply. "Stop stuttering," he said, but in an almost gentle tone. All the man's behavior told him that he had discovered something that he thought might be in some way embarrassing or compromising. Still, it was probably more than a drunken Duke or something like that, although Emhyr couldn’t think of any delicate matter that would provoke such a behaviour. Also, the Captain's attitude revealed to him that he was trying to be loyal - or rather, that it was indeed sincere loyalty which had induced him to personally bother the Emperor with this matter. The Impera Brigade members were usually all proud soldiers, faithful and honest servants of the Empire.  
  
"In any case, I assure you of my discretion," the Captain added stiffly. "The guards will be changed immediately if you wish. They will remain silent."  
Emhyr gave him an irritated look. What the hell had happened? The Captain slowly started moving again, and Emhyr followed him. The entrance came closer, an archway of stone, somewhat neglected due to massive ivy growth. Behind which, a few steps away, was the actual and guarded gate. It was one of the less essential entrances to the palace, but nevertheless, protected day and night. The archway, which was set directly into the rampart walls around the palace, lay in the penumbra and insufficiently lit by the torches directly at the gate. Emhyr squinted his eyes together - someone was standing there.

For a moment, his heart seemed to stop. The figure supported himself with one hand on the wall, making it difficult to estimate his actual size. The face lay in shadow, but the way he stood there... the physics, the silhouette, and finally the hair. It almost glowed in the pale surroundings, standing out with its unique color. Not grey, not even ordinary white. Milky white.  
_Geralt?_  
For a terrible moment, Emhyr believed he was dreaming. That he had fallen asleep, and his subconscious was simply showing him what he wanted to see. Slowly, he took a step towards the archway. Suddenly, his feet made no sound on the gravel anymore; all sounds had vanished except for that of his own heartbeat, which was booming in his ears. One foot in front of the other, and still he could not believe what he saw. With one look, Emhyr took in everything, every detail: the bare feet, the burned hands, dried blood on the forehead, more in the messy hair. Bitemarks on one leg - the one that he had broken half a year ago, the one that still hurt him occasionally - and the mere fact that he had shifted his weight to the other leg.  
  
Now Emhyr was almost with him, and at that very moment, he raised his head - and as if the last confirmation was missing, Emhyr’s brain repeated the thought.  
_Geralt._  
And then he spoke his name, in a low voice, disbelieving; a mixture of hope and despair - hope that this was real, despair at the thought that it could still be a dream.  
"Geralt."  
And Geralt looked at him, although for some reason, his gaze was not entirely focused. Bruised and battered, he appeared deeply exhausted and in pain. But still, he smiled, albeit a crooked smile.  
He let go of the wall, took a step towards Emhyr. His voice sounded hoarse when he said, "You were in my dream, that's the only reason I remembered." It made no sense to Emhyr, but it didn't matter. He reached out his hand, hesitantly, still confused and incredulous, when he noticed that the expression on Geralt's face changed suddenly.  
  
His body seemed to think that he had done enough. He had walked all night, repressing the pain and fog in his head, had sought his way, stumbling, falling, getting up again. Now he had finally arrived, and a last remnant of sanity had told him that he better not use the main entrance; part of him sensed that he hadn't been gone for just a few hours. A tiny, hushed voice inside him remembered the endless lectures about the palace and its complicated etiquette. Politics does not tolerate scandals, these were Emhyr's words, and he had remembered them. That little part of him that could still think straight had led him to that gate, and luck or chance or fate had led Emhyr straight to him. And now, so his body found, it was time to shut down. The step forward was already a fall, his body went limp, and he passed out.  
  
Emhyr had just enough time to stretch out his arms and catch him. Geralt in his arms, they sank to the ground together; he got down on his knees and gently placed the witcher’s head in his lap. Then he turned to the Captain, who stood behind him in respectful silence, and ordered quietly, "The sorceress, now. Also, the witchers. And... my daughter. All of it with the utmost discretion. I need not remind you that no one must know about this."  
  
The man really did not need to be reminded of this. Had Emhyr not been so confused and distracted he would have noticed that the Captain radiated a sincere sense of duty. No one achieved such a position unless he was capable of independent thought, capable of grasping situations in their entirety and acting accordingly. These were qualities that Emhyr usually recognized. But right now, he had no sense of them. He just sat there, stroking slowly and carefully over Geralt's hair, looking at his pale face, amazed and relieved that he was here. He leaned over him and whispered things in his ear that would calm himself down, and for a while, he just sat there, Geralt's head in his lap, his hair twined through his fingers.  
  
Triss was the first to arrive; she was the first one the Captain alerted. Her red hair, disheveled from sleep, flowed around her angry face - she had hurriedly wrapped a cape over her nightgown because the Captain had sounded so insistent. Still, she had no idea what to expect. She saw Emhyr from a distance, but she didn't understand yet, not as fast as Ciri, anyway, who appeared next. Like the witchers who arrived shortly after, she had dressed in haste, alarmed by the soldier's zeal and the mysterious urgency of his words. She grasped the situation in a split second, and without thinking, she used her powers. One moment she had just entered the courtyard, the next, she was right beside Emhyr, fell to her knees and felt for Geralt's pulse - it was clear from whom she had learned this.  
Adan, who had sneaked out of her rooms shortly after Triss and was the last to arrive, had only had a rudimentary understanding of Ciri's powers. To see them was something completely different, a fundamental violation of physics - and a unique sight. The feline, who had received his name for a reason, was fast; this, however, was a completely new definition of speed. The other witchers didn't care much about this at the moment: Geralt's return was both relieving and mysterious, and in addition to their concern for him, they were driven by the potential immediate threat of the vampire. He might be here somewhere.  
"I don't know what is going on," mumbled Ciri. "Triss?"  
The sorceress had run when she realized who she saw there, and now she went down on her knees next to Ciri and Emhyr. The apparent injuries did not explain why Geralt was unconscious. Although the blood on his temple proved that Ciri's assumptions had been correct, the wound there had already healed.  
"We should bring him in," Triss said. "He may have internal injuries; I don't want to do this out here."  
"We need a plan," said Emhyr.  
Adan immediately replied, "I know how.“

If anyone had noticed the strange procession, it would have been the conversation topic for a whole year. Adan made sure that nobody noticed it. By now, he knew enough shortcuts through the palace; he knew which corridors and paths were particularly frequented or where there was a danger that curious night owls or early risers would open their doors. Lambert and Eskel carried Geralt between them, flanked by Emhyr in front of them and Ciri behind them, who could have fended off any incidents with their authority alone. But the nocturnal hour benefited them - even the quarterly drinkers among the guests were now asleep, and there was still a good hour to go before sunrise. Completely unseen, they reached Emhyr's chambers. Ensuring the guards didn't notice was surprisingly simple: a fake emergency in the adjacent corridor lured one of them away from the door, while a witcher sign convinced the other to follow his companion. After Geralt was safely placed down, it was Ciri, of all people, who complimented everyone out.  
  
"Let's let Triss work in peace," she said, "and we'll try to find out if there is any trace of the vampire. As long as Geralt is not conscious, we don't know if he came back alone. Let me know if anything changes." She added the last one addressed to Emhyr, and when he looked at her, for once, something like surprise appeared in his gaze. She reacted entirely logically: Geralt was safe here for the time being, but everyone else's safety was unclear. She had her feelings under control better than he had expected, and in him, the thought matured again that it was time to tell her that. Her uniqueness, the combination of everything she had learned from the witchers and her natural heritage, had seldom been so evident as now, when she led the witchers to the door. And while she was still making plans with them, as if she were the leader of this small troop.  
Adan, fully equipped, albeit he had been roused in the middle of the night, threw some bandages to Triss before he left, and she caught them without a word. Both movements were a silent agreement, an unusual sign of familiarity that would have surprised anyone - if they had really taken any notice.  
  
No sooner had everyone else left the bedroom than a certain tension fell from Emhyr. In Triss' presence, he allowed his concern to become apparent; and he stood impatiently by the bed, waiting for her to work her magic. But she had a cure for it: she kept him busy, and he did not struggle against it. He helped to undress Geralt so that the sorceress could examine him; but apart from the visible bite marks on his leg and the burnings on his hands which needed to be bandaged, nothing could be seen. Yet Triss was worried about the blood on his temple - it fit perfectly with Lambert's remark that a single blow to this spot was enough to kill someone. Well, he was obviously not dead, but just as obviously _something_ was wrong.  
  
An uninitiated observer might have thought that the court sorceress was allowing herself to chase the Emperor around when she was only looking for an excuse to keep him busy so that he would not be breathing down her neck during the examinations. She instructed him to get water to wipe the blood from Geralt's face and hair while she used her magic to find out what was going on. He did so, and with a tenderness that surprised even himself. The surprise was not about that he had it within him, but that he showed it now and in front of the sorceress. But he did not care. After this, he turned to Geralt's hands, bloody and burnt. Triss quietly said, despite her concentrated state fully aware of what he was doing, "He did that to himself." With a quick nod of her head, she pointed out to Emhyr the almost faded marks on Geralt's wrists. But because he did not understand immediately, she added, "He was obviously tied up and freed himself with a sign." Emhyr didn't even want to think about what had made Geralt do so. It was easy to imagine, though, that it was his usual stubbornness, and all it took was one look at his bare feet: scratched, torn and bruised, the wounds of someone who was determined not to give up. Determined to keep going, even if it meant pain.  
  
Emhyr cleaned all injuries especially carefully. While Triss focused on her task, she watched him in silence for a while, without him noticing. Eventually, she quietly remarked, "Have you done this before?"  
"With him?" Emhyr answered without looking up. Concentrated and meticulous, he touched Geralt's skin with the cloth and the gentleness of him holding Geralt's badly burned hands was astounding. "More often than I would like," he continued. Although she saw it with her own eyes, Triss found the sight strange. It was hard to imagine that he, the ruler of the most powerful empire on the Continent, would stoop to it. He didn't have to, all it took was a hint, a pointer, and he would get everything he wanted. Yet, at that moment, she understood that this was what he wanted. She had told him before that she believed that love led people to the strangest things. This particular one was not strange. It was just unusual that he did it. And at the same time, it was oddly touching.  
  
When he was finished, Triss angrily exclaimed, "This vampire truly smashed his skull in." She sat on the bed, holding Geralt's head in her hands, and looked at Emhyr with a mixture of regret and resentment. "A skull fracture, but the healing has already begun, and with such a sensitive area, magic should remain in the background. He has a severe concussion, but a day or two of bed rest, and the worst is over. I can do a little to ease the pain, but the rest is up to his body."  
She helped him in dressing Geralt’s hands and wounded leg. They worked silently side by side, united in solicitude. When they were finished, Triss stood up and remarked, "Sleep cannot harm you either. I believe we have nothing to fear from the vampire momentarily. Geralt apparently escaped him, but he couldn't possibly have been on his way quickly. If he could have wanted to catch up with him..." She left the rest open. It was clear. "We'll see further in a few hours," she said afterward. "I will find out what Ciri knows by now. Get some rest."  
  
With that, she left, and once more, Emhyr had an unreal feeling as if he was in a dream. All tension had left him, and he was suddenly so clearly aware of the advanced night that he almost closed his eyes and probably would have fallen asleep standing up. But a last vestige of reason instructed him to sit down on the bed cautiously, to wipe his shoes from him; then he took the blanket and spread it over Geralt. He did not bother to undress; he did not find the strength and it seemed so useless to him. Very carefully, he lay down next to Geralt, turned on his side to look at him, and for a while, he just watched his chest rise and fall. The vulnerability of this face in his sleep moved him repeatedly. Emhyr stretched out a hand and placed it on Geralt's chest as if he wanted to convince himself even more clearly that he was really there and that he was breathing. And that was how he fell asleep.

[](https://abload.de/image.php?img=abxfpjj0.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Dark cloud's rising".
> 
> Art is once again made by [Artwinsfandoms](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/artwinsfandoms/632149661835247617) :)


	19. Fearful into the unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for some fluff...
> 
> Chapter title is a line from "Nightfall".

**\- 18 -**

**Fearful into the unknown**

Morning came soon, but not for Emhyr and Geralt, Ciri had seen to that. She had pulled out all the stops and played out her privileges as heir to the throne; had invented even more excuses as to why the two of them did not show up for breakfast, why parts of the agenda were postponed or carried out by herself. In the end, it was much easier than expected as nobody seemed to anticipate that such a big event would go off without a hitch. It seemed almost as if the court had prepared itself for all the mysteries. Moreover, the palace employed servants who knew how to deal with the eccentric peculiarities of high society. Some might have found it unusual that the Emperor’s behavior suddenly became so unpredictable. Still, Adan learned from the servants that most attributed this to the wedding itself. The vast majority seemed to believe that love could soften even the hardest stone and that the prospect of marriage made most men nervous.  
  
While the court was busy, a veritable beehive of activity within a place that was rarely quiet or contemplative, there were at least two people who had a moment of peace. Emhyr's exhaustion made him sleep through sunrise, and when he finally woke up, it was almost noon. Still, he was lying there as he had fallen asleep. Still, his hand was resting on Geralt's chest, and his face was the first thing Emhyr saw. Not that it needed any further confirmation, but precisely this made him realize how much he had missed him. For months they had possessed exactly this if they were not separated by any obligations on his part or Geralt's contracts: falling asleep together, waking up together. Emhyr left his hand on Geralt's body for a little longer, until he noticed that he had slept in his clothes and that he was probably expected somewhere. Very carefully and with regret, he released his touch and tried to get up. Yet with surprising speed, a hand grabbed Emhyr’s wrist, reclaiming his hand’s position on Geralt’s chest.  
  
His eyes remained closed, but Geralt murmured something that Emhyr did not understand. He leaned forward and put a kiss in the tangled mass of hair that was scattered across Geralt's forehead.  
"'...sn't hurt," he murmured drowsily.  
"What?"  
"Nothin’ hurts there," Geralt repeated.  
"Really? Where?"  
Geralt smiled and raised a finger to his mouth.  
"Here," he said.  
Emhyr made a little noise, not unlike a restrained laugh that made Geralt open his eyes.  
"You’re being silly," Emhyr said in a soft voice.  
"Oh, yeah? I think I hurt my head. What about my kiss now?"  
"Hm, I heard you don't contradict someone who's hurt his head."  
So, he got his kiss, light and gentle, for Emhyr did not dare to put all the feelings of the past days into it.  
  
"What happened?" Emhyr finally asked. Geralt wrinkled his brow, behind where the pounding in his head had lessened.  
"The last thing I remember is that out of nowhere, a vampire is standing in the bedroom, attacking me. That same bastard from…" The look on Emhyr's face told him that was no news to him, and Emhyr nodded.  
"That much we already know. Or rather, we assumed."  
"Well, you assumed right," Geralt answered drily. "But I don't remember anything more until the moment when I woke up several miles from the palace in an abandoned house." For a moment, Geralt stared thoughtfully into the nothingness.  
"Nothing else?" Emhyr asked, softly. "Where was the vampire after you came to?"  
"I don't know, he wasn't there. He tied me up like a package in some room and probably thought I wouldn't wake up for a while."  
"Hm. How do you feel now?"  
Geralt thought about it. The pain in various parts of his body was only dull now, except for his leg; there it sat so deep that even Triss couldn't do anything about it. He remembered that he had walked, very long and very far, which was probably the reason why this pain came back so clearly now that he had rested. But he didn't bother; he was used to it. When he turned his head, he was still dizzy, and that too would probably stay that way for a while. But when asked how he felt, there was only one answer, but he didn't tell: he felt safe.  
  
"How long was I gone?" he asked instead.  
"Almost three days," Emhyr replied seriously. He noticed Geralt's frown; he knew exactly what he thought at this moment. He quickly followed up, "Yes, I was worried. Are you familiar with this tradition, according to which you must marry a sibling if the future partner dies before the wedding? I was petrified that I would have to choose between the witchers."  
Geralt pulled a face. "Good heavens, Emhyr, I do love you, but please don't try to be funny."  
An amused twinkle appeared in Emhyr's dark eyes. "So, all it takes is a bang on the head to make you say that?"  
"Probably," Geralt replied with a wry grin. Then, back to serious, he said, "I have no idea what that vampire wanted."  
"It makes no sense," Emhyr agreed. "Except when it comes to sabotaging the wedding." "Then he could have killed me, or you," Geralt said seriously.  
Emhyr shrugged. "He might have been willing to take that risk, but he didn't abduct you for no reason. We must think about what reasons he may have had. Whether he forged new alliances, and with whom. Who might have benefited?"  
"My head hurts just thinking about it," mumbled Geralt. Emhyr raised his eyebrows, slightly amused.  
"Well, you're not invited anyway. You stay in bed, order of the court sorceress."  
"Alone?"  
"I think that was part of the instruction. And before you get any ideas - I'm placing additional guards right outside this door, and it stays open."  
"That might look a bit strange," Geralt remarked skeptically. "Besides, I don't think he will try the same thing again."  
"I don't care how it looks," Emhyr replied calmly. "As far as the court is concerned, you are indisposed. And if anyone thinks I want to prevent you from escaping from the palace just before the wedding by putting guards at your door, I don't care. Last time, no one heard your fight. I'm not taking any more risks here, Geralt."  
"I can take care of myself."  
"Don't waste your breath, that's not what this is about."  
"Is there any tradition that says something about arguments shortly before the wedding?"  
"No one _argues_ with the Emperor, it might cost one's head. And I happen to like yours," Emhyr replied, placing another short kiss on Geralt's forehead. "Sleep. I'll look after you later.“

  


Another meal had to be endured, some minor obligations to be performed, assigned, or delegated before Emhyr could assemble his small, scratched-up party in his study. He told them what he had learned from Geralt - that it was, in fact, about the vampire who had already attacked in Aretusa. But what he heard from the others could not please him.  
"There were no traces," Ciri told him. "At least not obvious ones. The vampire did not follow Geralt, we're quite sure."  
"What if he did it in his other form?" Emhyr interjected. He still found the thought almost disgusting, but he had been forced to deal with the special peculiarities of these beings in the past. The thought that a vampire was roaming around his palace secretly in whatever form did not appeal to him at all. He had read the reports from his cousin's court. Her encounters with vampires had not been that long ago - and had been extremely unpleasant for the whole city. Emhyr had no idea what a single vampire could do, but neither could he be sure that it was just one they were dealing with.  
  
"If he had done that," Lambert interjected, "None of us would have probably noticed. Besides, he had all night to attack which he didn’t do. Whatever he was up to - it was either accidental that Geralt escaped from him or intentional."  
"How can this be intentional?" Triss wanted to know. Lambert shrugged. "I think that's exactly the point we should be thinking about."  
"You think he is planning something at the wedding?" Emhyr asked.  
"It is not unthinkable," Lambert replied. "My theory is that whatever he was planning didn't work out right away. If Geralt has confirmed that it is the same vampire as back then, we know at least one thing: that his specialty is a sort of mind control. Maybe he tried that, but then accidentally hit him on the head so hard during their fight that Geralt was too badly injured for that. Then he waited, but he didn't come to for quite a long time. So maybe he changed his plans."  
Everyone thought about Lambert's words for a moment. This theory was better than anything they had.  
"Fine," Emhyr finally said, and the impatient drumming of his fingers on the desk revealed that he wasn't delighted - although he had no one to blame. "But we still don't know what these plans might look like. I want to know what this vampire wants."  
His voice had taken on an authoritative tone that made it clear to everyone that this was the Emperor speaking. But he himself had the feeling that certain defiance was speaking out of him - even he could not ask for the impossible and receive it.  
  
"We should think again about de Groot," Adan suddenly interjected. Emhyr gave him a look that could mean just about anything from annoyed to disgusted.  
"He was sitting at lunch today, completely normal, grim-face… but inconspicuous," Triss said with a frown. "I don't understand why you think he had anything to do with this." "It's not necessarily me who believes that," the feline replied hesitantly, and almost uncomfortably, he shifted his weight. With a long look at everyone in the room, he finally revealed his connection to Birke.  
It was something that everyone had to let sink in first.   
"You build remarkable friendships." This came from Ciri, and it was hard to interpret whether there was perhaps a trace of recognition in her voice.  
"I would rather call it an alliance," Adan countered, unmoved.  
"I remember the assassin," Emhyr pondered. "But his, well, chain of evidence is quite thin."  
"But can we disregard it?" Triss asked with a tone of slight concern. "Even if they are not related, we are dealing with two different types of threats. And we can't completely ignore the concerns of this assassin - I mean, I can say from my own experience that we have a problem if these mages are allied in secret."  
Of course, she was referring to her time at the lodge, although it had other objectives. But a kind of secret alliance of the mages of Nilfgaard, which possibly foresaw a future of the empire without the Emperor - it was a conceivable threat.  
Emhyr suddenly sat up straight in his chair, looked at them all seriously, and, without hesitation in his voice, asked, "Should we cancel the wedding?“

  


Into the astonished silence, a deep, familiar voice coming from the doorstep said, "We certainly won't."  
Geralt had entered the room unnoticed, closed the door behind him and stopped in front of it with a relaxed expression, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His hair, still damp, was evidence that he must have recently bathed; it flowed around his shoulders. He wore, unusually enough, one of Emhyr's black silk tunics over one of his own pants - it had been merely the first thing he had grabbed. He had no idea how amazingly handsome he appeared in it. At least Emhyr's heart skipped a beat at the sight. He opened his mouth, possibly to scold him, albeit his pleasure to see him, but Triss was somehow faster.  
"You shouldn't be walking around at all yet," she said, throwing him a prudent glance - perhaps to find out if it was his usual stubbornness alone that was keeping him upright. He returned her gaze calmly, and maybe he leaned slightly against the door because he did not entirely trust his own balance.  
"I will certainly not stare at the ceiling while you discuss things that obviously concern me. A wedding requires at least two, from what I've heard."  
This was clearly directed at Emhyr. He waited patiently until Geralt was greeted by his wolf brothers with a broad smile on their faces and a hearty embrace in each case. Then he replied, barely holding back a reprimanding tone of voice, "This is not just about two people, Geralt."  
  
A feeling of uneasiness filled the room, which Adan, of all people, broke with his next words.  
"I think he's right. We should play by their rules, beat them at their own game."  
"And that means what?" asked Emhyr. His fingers resumed playing a melody of impatience on the tabletop. He picked up a glance from Geralt, who pointed it out with a tiny nod of his head, accompanied by an almost imperceptible slight lifting of the corners of his mouth. Barely heaving his eyebrows, Emhyr made it clear that he by no means felt caught. But the tiny exchange of glances, the silent agreement was enough to tame his impatience for a moment.  
None of the others in the room noticed any of this. Except perhaps Adan, who took a very brief, probing look back at Geralt, but then immediately turned to Emhyr and replied, "This means I agree that we should not cancel anything. De Groot probably doesn't even have the slightest idea that we suspect him. Why should he, he doesn't know about the assassin and his presumptions, I suppose. And as for this vampire - whatever he's up to, we probably won't find out if we chicken out."  
The look he got from Emhyr for his last words would have made another man wince. But Adan took it very calmly. And Geralt was ahead of Emhyr's next words.  
"To _chicken out_ might not be the words you would have chosen. But you have to admit that there is something to it."  
"In the end, you say that you want to lure a higher vampire directly into the palace. To a place wherein a few days, hundreds of people will be. Not only a selection of the most important nobles of the empire, but also the rulers of various kingdoms. While at the same time, a conspiracy of mages may be underway. That there is _something to it_ cannot seriously be a justification for endangering so many defenseless people."  
Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath. After all, there was the possibility that a severe argument was about to break out.  
But just as Geralt, still serene in his gaze, opened his mouth for an answer, a sound resounded, with each of those present turning around jerkily.  
  
In the middle of the room, a portal opened, steel blue and flickering - and completely unexpected.


	20. The chaos can begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fluff? A little. And a strange plan. We'll see how that turns out.
> 
> Chapter title is a line from "Valhalla".

**\- 19 -**

**The chaos can begin**

In an instant, everyone was alert. Since nobody except the imperial guard could carry weapons in the palace, the witchers were nearly unarmed, but certainly not defenseless - each of them hid a blade. Eskel and Lambert were instantly tense, remaining in defensive positions. Triss had raised her hands, a spell almost at her fingertips. Geralt took a quick step towards Emhyr; slightly too quick, the bath alone had not been conducive to his weakened circulation and the dizziness returned. And at the same time, he was not swift enough because one person was still faster: Adan, who was also closer to Emhyr. With one leap, he jumped onto the desk and pulled a long knife from within his clothes which he held in a typical defensive posture.  
  
Out of the portal stepped a familiar figure, dressed in a low-cut black dress with a fine white fur collar, as if to emphasize her grand entrance: Yennefer of Vengerberg. The black hair framed her face as usual in curls, and her violet eyes looked amused at her surroundings. The fact that it was the sorceress who had stepped out of the now dying teleport caused the witchers to drop their alertness — all except Adan, who did not know her.  
"Get off my table," Emhyr hissed at him. The feline turned around in a confused state for a moment before shrugging and returning the knife, he leaped elegantly from the desk. Yennefer paid no attention to him at all. She didn't look at Geralt either. Almost with apparent indifference, she glanced past him, turned to Emhyr, and performed a small, strangely mocking curtsey.  
"An explanation?" he demanded scarcely, and in a chilling tone.  
His face betrayed nothing, but his posture made it clear that he could not stand the sorceress: leaning back he was sitting there, his arms crossed, his head disparagingly tilted to the side.  
"Papa, calm down," Ciri interfered. She had come closer and briefly laid a hand on his arm as if she could force his muscles to relax with this succinct gesture alone. "I called Yen." Then she turned to the sorceress and wrapped herself around her in a gentle embrace.  
"For what purpose?" asked Geralt, who in the meantime had come closer and was leaning unobtrusively against the desk. Not unobtrusively enough, because Adan gave him a quick glance, which he repulsed with a barely noticeable tilting of his head. "No offense, Yen," he continued, and she finally looked at him, forced herself to make a neutral expression on her face, and replied formally.  
"None taken. I admit Ciri was a bit vague, but obviously, there are problems with a vampire?"  
"There was no need to involve anyone else in this," Geralt muttered in Ciri's direction.  
"I would have arrived soon anyway," Yennefer said with a defensive hand gesture, perhaps implying that this didn't bother her at all - but rather to underline her magnanimity. "I only hope that my luggage arrives soon. It will arrive in a rather conventional way, I'm afraid. Perhaps someone can take care of it," she continued, not addressing anyone in particular.  
  
"We'll see to that," Ciri replied quickly, noticing the steep crease that had formed on her father's forehead. "We were just thinking about plans," she continued and brought the sorceress up to date with a few words. Meanwhile, the tension in the room was tangible. Lambert and Eskel had no personal grudge against Yennefer; both regarded the sorceress as largely neutral: her abilities were undisputed, and it was clear that they would prefer to see her on their own side. However, the witchers also knew her capriciousness - and her previous relationship with Geralt which had not ended well - brought a certain unease into the atmosphere. She was probably to blame for the Emperor's stiff gaze, even Geralt showed a slightly uncomfortable expression. Only Ciri seemed genuinely pleased to see Yennefer - she was still her closest confidante. Triss's face reflected contradictory emotions, even though she tried hard to hide them. There were many reasons for this, but surely one of them was that she feared that Yennefer, because of her connection to Ciri, had hoped to become the court sorceress one day. She did not know whether her old friend was resentful about this.  
  
The only one who remained somewhat unimpressed by the appearance of the black-haired sorceress was Adan. His advantage was not only that as an outsider, he had no personal animosities with her whatsoever. Thanks to his heightened perception, he had no problem seeing through her façade. For him it was highly fascinating that all the feelings that accumulated in the room were various forms of concentrated affection. Although the sorceress was clearly not Ciri's mother, there was maternal love. Besides the witchers' strange brotherly bond with Geralt, which was perceivable, there were several other forms of love.  
Past love was the most interesting - guilt, shame, resentfulness, forgiveness, and even more, were combined in a confusing mix. But after all, this was easy to recognize but difficult to understand, the feline soon gave up trying to see through it and raised his voice.  
"So, listen… crazy idea. We'll spread the rumor there's a vampire amongst the guests."  
"Why should he care?" Lambert wanted to know. Surprisingly, his tone lacked the usual sharpness.  
"Because it's about the game," Geralt replied thoughtfully. "The idea isn't that stupid."  
"You want to lure a _vampire_ here by pretending another vampire is here. Why exactly is that a good idea?" Emhyr's voice could hardly have been colder. Geralt turned briefly to him, but this time even his little smile didn't have much success.  
  
"Because the two obviously know each other, from what I heard," Adan continued, unmoved. "We pretend that his old friend arrived earlier than expected. So now he asks himself: is it because of him, is he going to stand in his way again? He has something planned that we don't quite see through yet. But we know that higher vampires usually avoid each other. They have some sort of arrangement that prevents them from ripping each other apart, I don't know."  
"It's a bit more complicated than that," Geralt said, "But maybe he's actually curious enough - if only to see if Regis is holding their last meeting against him."  
"Using mind control, he tried to get him to bring us both directly into the arms of Assire var Anahid," Emhyr intervened. "And if he hasn't mysteriously lost his abilities, explain to me again why it's a good idea to bring someone like that into the middle of a palace full of high-ranking personalities."  
"Should we really wait until the wedding itself to find out what he is up to?" Ciri intervened. Apparently, Emhyr had to revise his view that she was becoming the voice of reason. "It may be risky, but it's actually not a bad idea. We'll lure him out of his reserve. Not in the middle of the palace, of course, but we could come up with something… something that would make him think Regis actually wanted a meeting with him."  
"Where he'll be expected to meet witchers and sorceresses? I don't think a higher vampire would fall for something like that," Eskel said - the real voice of reason, it seemed.  
"He is too in love with the game," Triss replied, thoughtfully. "Quite possible that he would be alert, but whether he really expects to be set up? Geralt is right. The behavior of these creatures is complex. His desire to either get even with Regis or to try again to get him on his side might be stronger than the thought that he might be ambushed."  
"There's only one problem - Regis isn't here yet, and a mere rumor won't help if this vampire starts sneaking around and looking around the place," Lambert said.  
Yennefer, who had been following the conversation the whole time with an almost amused expression on her face, suddenly said: "That's actually not a big problem, my dear Lambert. The rumor should just be precise enough - one or the other may have seen the creature, the next can describe it exactly. And in the end, a little illusion..." She snapped her fingers to underline her words.  
"Then… you're in on this?" asked Geralt, and she looked at him with her cool eyes and slightly laid her head aside.  
"I beg you. I was afraid that this would be a very boring and stiff wedding."  
"Let's say I agree with this absolute nonsense," said Emhyr in a tone intended to make it clear that he still had the last word on the subject, "Then how do we solve the second problem? Enrik de Groot?"  
  
"I would have a solution for that as well," Adan replied with a meaningful gesture. "You two will be seen together tonight at the banquet that is on the agenda if I am not mistaken. De Groot will be there as well. His reaction when he sees Geralt might tell us something about whether he was involved in the kidnapping. And even if not: he will be busy, and I might be able to break into his room again. But I need Triss."  
"What do you mean, _again_?“ Triss asked, surprised.  
The feline ran his hand through his hair - a sign of slight nervousness, as Triss knew by now - and added, "Perhaps I was in his rooms the other day, snooping around a bit."  
"Which was probably the assassin's idea, because I don't remember approving of anything of the sort," Emhyr said in a voice almost dripping with sarcasm - he had apparently forgotten that this basically bounced off Adan.  
"Somehow, it was," the latter replied calmly. "There was nothing to be found, however, except that de Groot hides a chest under his bed, which he magically secured."  
"Oh, and now you want me to break into his chambers with you and find out what's inside that chest?" Triss didn't even sound upset, somewhat slightly amused.  
"Is that possible?" Emhyr asked surprisingly. Triss turned to him and narrowed her eyes. He sat in his chair again, straight as an arrow, drumming his fingers on the backrest, while seemingly lost in thought.  
  
"Surely, that is possible. Is that an official instruction to your court sorceress?"  
"It is an official request to the imperial advisor," Emhyr replied with composure. "If there's any risk involved, I don't approve."  
"Other than getting caught by de Groot himself? I don't think so."  
"Well, we can make sure that doesn't happen," Lambert replied. "We are all here tonight."  
"If you don't pay more attention to the food than to the mage, this might actually work," Geralt said mockingly. Lambert gave him a faint smile.  
"Very well, I'll consider it. However, I don't know if you're really in the condition to show up tonight," Emhyr told Geralt.  
Geralt raised his brows. "Let me worry about that."  
Before Emhyr could answer, Triss interfered.  
"If we're going to do this, just make sure he's still resting and taking some fluids, then that will probably work. The rest of us will work out the intricacies of these plans and consult with you later," she said, addressing Emhyr.  
"I take that as actual advice from my advisor," he replied almost gallantly, getting up and walking around the table. To the surprise of everyone in the room, he took the no less surprised Geralt by the arm and began to lead him out.  
"Ridiculous," muttered Geralt under his breath.  
When the door closed behind them, Lambert said, to nobody in particular, "Are you sure they are not already secretly married?”

  


Geralt's protest was transparent - in fact, he didn't mind avoiding the presence of the others for a while. Although he felt that his senses were slowly returning, it had been difficult to concentrate on several people at once, and his head hurt. He was also hungry, as his growling stomach signaled. But the food that Emhyr organized for him, which he had on the small chaise longue in Emhyr's rooms, was only a fleeting pleasure. It refused to stay in his stomach. As he vomited into some hastily grasped bowl, Emhyr held him by the shoulder with one hand, holding his hair back with the other; and Geralt had the unreal feeling of deja-vu. Though one that felt like a real memory that didn't want to surface. Emhyr made sure he took some water, watched him checking to see if at least that stayed in - it did - and then helped Geralt curl up on the sofa, with the head in his lap.  
  
"There's no way you're going anywhere tonight," he said as he stroked Geralt's head slowly, soothingly.  
"Yes, I will," muttered Geralt stubbornly, eyes closed. "I don't have to do anything; I'll just sit there and look grumpy."  
"You _are_ quite good at that… but you're not well, Geralt. I might just forbid you to."  
A faint snort was to be heard, and Geralt answered.  
"I might forbid you first. You're probably in greater danger than me."  
"You can't _forbid_ me," Emhyr said, and Geralt could hear certain amusement in his voice. He did not open his eyes, his head was pounding, but he could imagine the slightly raised corners of Emhyr's mouth.  
"How so?"  
"We're not married yet."  
"I'd like to see that I can forbid you anything when we are… but listen. Adan's idea isn't a bad one, and it's about time we were seen together again."  
His voice became noticeably quieter, he was exhausted, and here, with his head in Emhyr's lap, it wasn't hard to admit that. "Lambert can give me something, and I'll be all right," he added.  
"You think witcher potions are a good idea in such a condition?"  
Geralt made a little noise, a soft, barely audible laugh, perhaps.  
"I have no intention of frightening the guests. Lambert is quite good at making remedies from herbs."  
For a while, they were both silent. Only the firewood in the fireplace occasionally gave a soft crackling sound. Emhyr had started to gently stroke Geralt's back, and his muscles relaxed under these movements.  
"You smell good," Geralt said at some point, his voice almost just a whiff.  
"Really? What of?"  
After a pause, Geralt replied, barely audible, "Juniper. Oakwood. And... and..."  
"And what?" Emhyr asked quietly.  
But now Geralt had fallen asleep.


	21. Is it true what they say about the part you played?

**\- 20 -**

**Is it true what they say about the part you played?**

Emhyr did not like to leave Geralt alone to sleep - curled up, pale and vulnerable. But it was an undeniable fact that he was apparently expected everywhere momentarily, and indeed – even when an imperial wedding was approaching – neither the empire nor its difficulties ceased to exist. He stood up slowly, carefully resting Geralt's head on a pillow on the chaise longue, knowing full well that he would not wake up now. His instincts were much duller whenever he healed, and it was good this way, for he obviously needed the rest. Since Geralt had already mentioned him, he sent for Lambert to prepare the remedy and keep an eye on his sleeping wolf brother. As expected, the witcher hid his sympathy behind some sarcastic words but didn’t hesitate for a minute.  
  
When Emhyr returned a few hours later, he found the room empty and, for a moment, his heart skipped a beat. He quickly noticed that the door to the sleeping chamber was open. As he approached, Geralt turned to him, slipping into a doublet.  
"Why are there frills on the sleeves?" he complained. "They chafe at the wrists. _And_ they look idiotic."  
Emhyr stopped on the doorstep for a moment and looked at him. Geralt noticed the gaze - and he recognized it.  
"You like it," he noted, an amused twinkle in his eyes.  
"I like it," Emhyr confirmed.  
  
The dark navy, almost black color of the garment formed a striking contrast to Geralt's eyes, which always glowed golden in the candlelight. Superficially, the piece was plain: a straight cut without embellishments, the only detail being the extremely fahionable frills - in Nilfgaard - and Emhyr had ordered to keep them to a minimum because he himself had commissioned this ensemble. The narrow-cut trousers in the same color were made of the finest, thin leather. They emphasized Geralt's muscular legs - well, not only his legs. Moreover, they were decorated on the sides with galloon stripes of actual silver threads. It was almost symbolic: outwardly unpretentious yet refined. And it looked excellent on Geralt - so good that Emhyr would have liked to tear it off his body right away. He restrained himself, though he could not resist giving him a short, albeit passionate kiss, before answering: "I must change my clothes as well."  
  
As Geralt was soon to discover, Emhyr's outfit was chosen to match his: He also wore dark navy, and the cut of his clothes was surprisingly simple. The purpose of this fashion was probably to emphasize the noble material - and with it the wearer.  
However, his frills were more sweeping, and the silver stripes ran not only through the sides of his pants, but also through his sleeves, where they ended shortly before the cuffs in a circumferential embroidery of the Nilfgaardian sun. He was every inch Emperor in this, and amazingly handsome. Geralt, who in the meantime had tied up his hair (and urgently needed a shave, Emhyr noted, but it was now too late for that), said softly: "Let's go, I have the feeling these pants are a little too tight."  
The corners of Emhyr's mouth lifted in the hint of a smile. "Let's go," he confirmed. "We don't wear these clothes to take them off right away."  
"Too bad," muttered Geralt.

  


Later, he made good on his announcement to look primarily grumpy during the banquet, and he had good reason to do so. It was not just a meal but an official event with entertainment, providing music and other amusement, and of course, endless forced conversations. The remedy Lambert had prepared for Geralt ensured that his head did not hurt too much. Still, the sheer volume, the varied smells, and the stale air in the room stimulated his reawakened and keen senses. He did not eat anything, slight dizziness still caused nausea as soon as he turned his head, and he did not trust his stomach. At some point, however, he no longer knew whether he was miserable from hunger or from nausea. The room's entire atmosphere seemed to blur into a colossal mess; the smells became sharp and acrid, the sounds merged into a single deep hum. He hardly noticed that a young woman was approaching him - meanwhile, music was playing, and he hoped that this lady did not intend to ask him to dance. But she bent over to him only briefly and whispered something into his ear, just one word, and he hardly understood it. Emhyr noticed how he frowned, he saw the woman, and how she suddenly walked on, without another word.  
  
"Who was that?" he asked quietly.  
"I have no idea," Geralt replied. Then he murmured softly in a pressed voice, "Listen, I have to get some fresh air, or I'm going to puke in front of everybody right in the middle of this table."  
Emhyr gave him a worried look. "Shall I join you?" he whispered.  
Geralt shook his head slowly. "No, that would look like you want to end the whole thing right away. I'll ask Yen."  
  
The sorceress sat a few chairs away, right next to Enrik de Groot, who looked very sour. She had engaged him in a conversation, but he seemed to answer only sparingly, which didn't bother her. Emhyr frowned and wanted to ask why it had to be the sorceress who, after all, was making sure that Merigold and the feline could get some time in the mage's chambers. But Geralt had already got up. He walked to Yennefer's place with stiff steps, and Emhyr saw that she looked up a little surprised when he leaned over to her and addressed her. But, perhaps just as surprisingly, she immediately stood up, grabbed Geralt by the arm, and led him out of the hall.  
  
Emhyr felt his daughter's gaze on him, Ciri sat on his left. He was still staring in the direction Geralt had disappeared, but she bent over and whispered to him, "What's wrong?"  
He turned to her. "Nothing," he said, touching her arm briefly and, as if to hold on to it, lifting his glass of wine and raising it to his lips. Ciri squinted her eyes together but said nothing more.  
  
The banquet seemed to drag on endlessly. Emhyr eventually turned off internally, a quality he had cultivated long ago. He was always motionless on the outside. His facial expressions didn't betray anything - not even listening when someone spoke to him, but quite able to come up with some answer. However, hardly anyone dared to do so anyway. His mind blanked out the noises. The music became a soft, steady tone in the background, the conversations a single conglomeration of unimportant words. Individual noises, such as the clashing of glasses, the bright laughter of a woman, were bright spots in this noise. They occasionally brought him back to reality. Then his gaze became focused again, and he absorbed his surroundings.  
  
The room was brightly lit and uncomfortably warm, numerous candles, open fire, and many people in the room made sure of that. The air was stagnant, some of the ladies at the tables tried in vain to flow some air with elegant little fans, although they only moved stale air back and forth with them. The tables were arranged in a horseshoe shape, with Emhyr as the prominent center at one end of the room and the rest at a certain distance along the walls. In the center was enough space for the musicians and other artists. There were three large windows at the opposite end of the room, but no one had bothered to open them. Apparently, it was thought that this would only drive the heat out of the room, and at this time of year, it was already so cold outside that many would have complained about the cool draught. Emhyr's gaze fell on Ciri again, looking clearly over the crowd, very attentive, picking up the smallest details - everything he usually did, she took it over.  
  
Had she noticed his mental absence, or was it merely her nature? For a moment, he asked himself regretfully if he still knew so little about her. It had never been easy to approach her, somehow always one step forward, two steps back, as if a single wrong word could tear the fragile web between them. It was equally his own fault, how much time had he already spent with her? She had been a child in his memory for too long, and no more than that: a sad, bittersweet memory. Then, years later, suddenly a grown woman who had her own views of him - and not all of them were wrong. They sometimes crept around each other like tigers in a cage, at least it felt that way. And yet, she had a significant part in what had happened between him and Geralt - which, even now, was still a strange miracle. At the same time, Geralt was the bond between him and Cirilla.  
  
Lost in thought, he looked at her, beautiful despite or maybe because of the scar on her face - a detail that only made her more like Geralt. Her incredibly light hair was longer now, but instead of pinning it up like most of the noblewomen in the room, it was artfully tied at the back of her head by a plaited braid. She had refused to wear a dress this time too, but the current Nilfgaardian fashion was surprisingly accommodating. She wore ridiculously wide pants, which were obviously intended to give the impression of a skirt, and a tight blouse tied with a wide fabric belt. Both were in muted colors and reminded slightly of a Skellige robe, which was probably the model for this absurd fashion, Emhyr thought. Looking at her from the side, he imagined he recognized a certain resemblance to himself; perhaps this was the case, perhaps not.   
His eyes fell on the two witchers, sitting not far from Ciri. They were also required to adapt to the palace's customs and etiquette, which meant above all that they could not appear in armor. Their robes were inconspicuous, dark colors, unadorned except for the inevitable frills; just elegant enough to stand up in front of the court, yet as unpretentious as their rank - and ultimately their desires - had demanded.  
In fact, Lambert's words had been, _"I will by no means walk around like a rooster in padded pants and screaming colors.“_ Ultimately, this only proved that his last appearance in reasonably fashionable clothing was probably several decades ago. Both witchers may have been dressed inconspicuously, may have had clean faces and combed hair, but they could hardly hide their nature: subliminal danger, aggression even, like predators on the jump.  
  
Lambert made a sour face, occasionally tugging at his clothes as if they were too tight for him - not acknowledging that they were of course tailor-made - and overall looked as if he had to stop himself from attacking someone with his cutlery. Eskel, on the other hand, sat quietly beside him, his gaze seeming to go through everything. Still, Emhyr felt that the witcher was diving into similar inner realms as himself. Did he notice the glances that almost all the ladies in the room - and some of the men, too - cast at him? Emhyr, at least, saw them. Some of them looked at Eskel with a kind of pleasant shiver. However, Emhyr hardly noticed any blatant indignation that someone like him could sit at the table there. This had nothing to do with the prominent scars on his face. They did attract looks, but few of them seemed to be marked by disgust. The witcher himself gave the impression that he seemed to expect those kind of glances above all else, Emhyr realized with a slight surprise, while in reality, without knowledge he appeared to be an exciting and thrilling sight for a society saturated with wealth and boredom.

  


A clearing of a throat behind his chair tore Emhyr from his thoughts. Irritated, he turned around, only to see the Captain who had led him to Geralt. Seeing him again not just brought back unpleasant memories, it also triggered an uneasy feeling in him. The man hardly appeared without reason.  
"What is it?" he asked in a subdued voice and threw a furtive glance around him. So far, the party seemed to be busy with an actor duo's performance, giving a well-known play in the middle of the room.  
"A man came to see me," the Captain began in his cumbersome expression, "He introduced himself as the _imperial assassin."_ The strange emphasis of these words could mean many things, especially skepticism. Still, obviously the soldier had taken the man seriously enough to appear here. He could not be blamed: although it was an open secret that such a person served the court, hardly anyone knew what he really looked like. This profession's reputation led everyone to believe that whoever saw the face of the assassin did not have long to live. The Captain was undoubtedly not superstitious but suspicious by nature.  
"He asked me to convey this report immediately, Your Majesty. I told him, of course, that I could not possibly disturb the festivities, but he... had persuasive arguments."  
  
The man handed Emhyr an envelope sealed with the imperial seal - a secret service document? Now? Emhyr took the envelope, gestured the Captain to wait, and broke the seal. The folded piece of parchment inside was indeed an intelligence report, and Emhyr wondered briefly what had caused the assassin to intercept this document - but when he read it, he realized.  
"Damn it," he cursed softly - and mostly unexpectedly - while looking toward the table where de Groot had recently sat. He was no longer there. The next curse formed within him; he did not utter it. Outwardly calm, he turned emphatically slowly to the Captain and said quietly, "Find the mage Enrik de Groot. Arrest him immediately, without attracting attention."  
The soldier's eyes widened briefly - not because of the order itself, but because it was given now, so close to the wedding and in the middle of a festive banquet. The Captain nodded briefly and left the banquet hall after a quick glance to make sure that the current equipment of guards in the room was sufficient - because if he were to arrest a mage, it would have to pose some kind of threat to the Emperor to which he would have to respond.  
  
No sooner had he disappeared than Emhyr turned to Ciri and murmured, "Cirilla. You must warn Merigold and the witcher. De Groot is gone."  
Ciri investigated the room in surprise. She had not noticed that the sorcerer had disappeared. "Geralt and Yen are not back yet," she replied quietly. Emhyr nodded. They were gone for a while now, and the bad feeling in him grew more assertive.  
"Send one of the witchers to check on them. And hurry about de Groot. This report here states that the head of the academy that de Groot is supposed to have stood in for is dead.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Under the ice".


	22. Yesterday seems like a dream no more

**\- 21 -**

**Yesterday seems like a dream no more**

"You should not have shown up in the first place," Yennefer said in a slightly reprehensive tone while leading Geralt through the corridors. "I can certainly do something for you, but a concussion like this is not to be trifled with, and Triss is the expert for such things."  
It wasn't easy to tell if she just meant Triss' expertise in healing spells - at least her emphasis was a bit strange.  
"Triss is busy," Geralt replied curtly. "Let's go to the gardens."  
With these words, he gently took her hand from his arm and put his own hand on her shoulder instead - he began to guide her, not the other way around. Yennefer was visibly irritated and looked at his face, searching.  
"Geralt. Are you sure this is all about you needing fresh air? Are you trying to tell me something out there that I don't want to hear?"  
Geralt looked straight ahead. His face was blank when he answered.  
"Why would I do that? You didn't want to listen to me the last times either. Besides, that was a long time ago, Yen."  
  
The sorceress bit her lip and denied herself a harsh response. Geralt didn’t look very healthy, although his complexion was always pale. When he looked serious, it was always hard to tell what was going on inside him. Besides, he was right; it had been a long time ago. At least by human standards. However, for the two of them, one year, two, three - it was such an unimportant, short period that they could not even have told how much time had passed under other circumstances. If she didn't know better - and she did. Although Yennefer had vowed not to count anymore.  
The endless breakups of the past decades had always been just a flicker in the wind. Until that damned djinn. And the damned Emperor. Yennefer forced herself not to think about it - which was admittedly difficult; after all she was invited to the wedding. But in the end, some good memories of many years had remained - and Ciri. Because of her alone, Yennefer was forced to put a brave face on the table. She would be strong, behave herself, and if that meant helping that strange couple out with any problems that could only be to her advantage.  
  
After they had left the palace behind them, they finally reached the gardens. An archway made of trailing rose plants opened the way in, now consisting only of leaves and rosehips. Behind it began a wide gravel path that led in a circle around a large bed where the first preparations for planting new roses were made. Traditionally, this started in the fall, which Yennefer considered an astonishing waste. She had no idea that this was the best time to plant. She thought that rose growing was a real gamble, while it was a challenging field for experts to master.  
The path was divided into three more ways behind the flower bed that led deeper into the gardens. Although it was already autumn, the gardens were amazingly colorful and varied. The occasional scattered trees with their leaves on the ground in front of their trunks completed the picture. Here and there, iron holders had been driven into the ground, on which there were illuminated torches. But despite the light and the early evening hours, the gardens were deserted. The most important guests were at the banquet, and for most of the others, the evening was already too cool to hang around outside.

"Where are we actually going?" Yennefer asked after a few minutes of silence when she noticed that Geralt led her further and further through the gravel paths, past endless borders and plants, and flower beds. Yennefer had neither the patience for plants nor a great interest in taking care of the ailing witcher; a certain sense of duty and a touch of past friendship brought her to it.  
"Perhaps you should sit down," she suggested.  
He did not answer, just leading her further through the garden along a sideways, narrow path. This led to a small place, presumably cozy by day, surrounded by tall ivy hedges, in the middle of which stood a fountain with a cheerful gargoyle of stone, functioning as a waterspout. Geralt's grip on her shoulder was just tight enough to be uncomfortable, and his silence seemed to have little to do with the fact that he was not feeling well.  
"Listen," she said irritably at one point, "if you need to throw up in the bushes, this place is probably as good as any other."  
The small place where he had taken her was dark; the next torches were a little further away, leaving only a faint light and mostly shadows. No moonlight illuminated the surroundings. Yennefer wondered what they were doing here. Her violet eyes searched Geralt, but he did not look at her. He didn't seem angry - which he could have been, considering how long she had avoided him and his pathetic attempts to apologize - nor did he show any other emotion. It was strange because Geralt wasn't very talented in that respect.   
  
Jerkily, she released her shoulder from his grip.  
"Geralt," she started, but a sound interrupted her. It seemed to come directly from the air, a ridiculous thought.  
But only a heartbeat later, it became louder; a roar, an ominous sound, and Yennefer stared into the darkness above her attempting to see something. A quick glance at Geralt showed her that he didn't look worried; he didn't react to the sound at all. Her instinct clearly shouted a warning: prepare a spell, protection, do something, but the absurdity of the situation, Geralt just standing there doing nothing, simply everything prevented her from reacting in time. In the blink of an eye, something came down from the sky, a dark, rushing, powerful entity, and materialized as a man before her. A man, but clearly not a human being. This was betrayed above all by his appearance; for like all his kind, his true nature was difficult to discern, even for mages. For a moment, the sorceress was frozen, then she caught herself and said tauntingly, "The vampire, how interesting."  
The one so addressed slightly raised the corners of his mouth to a sarcastic grin. He was an extremely handsome man, whose outer appearance resembled that of a young adult. However, he might well be several hundred years old. He wore his curly hair a touch too long and open, framing his soft, flawless face. He mockingly bowed to the sorceress and solemnly declared, "Anies Dubois, at your service."  
"I find this hard to believe," Yennefer replied pointedly. "It seems to me that the affair was planned the other way around." She turned again to Geralt, who stood there numb and didn't seem to notice his surroundings. Yennefer frowned and snapped her fingers in front of his face, without any reaction.  
  
"What is that?" she asked with a mixture of curiosity and restrained concern. "Not magic, apparently. Mind control? But how is that possible, you weren't anywhere near him?"  
"Well, my dear Yennefer," the vampire replied almost graciously, in a gentle, pleasant voice. "This project has been planned for a long time. A masterpiece, I should think."  
The sorceress immediately recognized that the vampire liked to hear himself talk. This trait was easy to see through, but she could not use this information any further, at least not then. She thought feverishly. A spell to attack him? _Useless, I need more time and more space, and there is almost no magic that would not simply bounce off him or whose effect would be little more than a ridiculous attempt by a single bee to sting a horse. The horse goes through, it becomes wild, it is in pain, but it recovers quickly, and soon everything is forgotten. Think!_ But the vampire's piercing eyes irritated her, and she feared that he wanted to test his mental abilities on her as well. She didn't know if it was possible for him to have two people under his influence at the same time, she doubted it, but she didn't want to risk it either. A protection spell? _Quick, Yenna, think!_

As if the vampire had read her thoughts, he suddenly changed right before her eyes. He took on a different shape. It was a memorable, albeit terrible sight. The man, who was not a man anyway, became something completely different, something terrible, an ancient figure of human nightmares. He grew taller, his skin seemed to be literally stretching out, only it no longer looked like human skin at all, more like the leathery wings of a giant bat. And he was huge indeed: the way he stretched and stretched and revealed his true form, he was almost twice as tall as Yennefer. A dark, gigantic creature that did not even resemble any known animal, with broad wings and a nearly triangular head. He was utterly hairless everywhere, and even more so without any visible sex - a strange, almost unnatural sight. However, the sorceress knew very well that such a thing was not rare in nature. But here, in this creature, simply everything was unnatural, even the numerous teeth that gleamed from the slightly open mouth. In this form, the vampire seemed to need no mind control at all; his very sight alone caused the sorceress to freeze.  
  
When he spoke, even his voice had changed, had become more resonant and rasping.  
"Just a little trip," he buzzed. "Then, my dear Yennefer, I will explain everything."  
Already the vampire spread his huge wings, giant dark wings that wrapped around the sorceress and held her captive in the blink of an eye, with nothing she could do about it. Then he turned his gaze to Geralt, who was still standing next to the two of them, staring into the nothingness, as if paralyzed. Yennefer watched breathlessly as the vampire took out the chubby, leathery tip of one of his wings, which grotesquely seemed to resemble a finger. With it, he tapped Geralt right on the forehead. Yennefer saw how Geralt suddenly opened his eyes, a sudden, shocked recognition, and how he simultaneously distorted his face in pain, screamed out and held both hands to his head. He fell to his knees, just as the vampire rose into the air with the sorceress, and finally remained only a huddled heap far below them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Journey through the dark".


	23. Interlude / They look for me but cannot find

**Interlude: Oh, I know it can't go on**

"I am disappointed," said the voice in his head.   
He winced, looking around hastily - for a moment, he believed the voice was not inside him. As if she was standing before him again. As if she was still alive.   
Of course, de Groot knew that was not true. She was dead… for good, and the voice was only in his head. Yet, it was so real. He appreciated this voice, for it was the last thing he had left of her.   
The corridor was almost empty at this hour, and no one paid any attention to him. It was simple magic that surrounded him, ridiculous stuff although adequate for many of those simple minds that would buzz around the palace. So, when he started to answer and speak to himself, he knew how that must have looked like. Yet he was almost instantly forgotten the moment he was met, so it didn’t matter in the end. And he could not bring himself to talk to her in his thoughts. He _knew_ she was not there. A few final remnants of his mind, some common sense still knew that. Still, for some reason, speaking softly to himself when he heard her voice helped him keep the connection alive. And she’d answer him. She always did.  
  
"I'm sorry,” he whispered.  
"You're sorry?" Now her voice sounded derisive.  
He knew that tone, she would use it when she had not been delighted. Whenever her voice had been soft, almost tender - not that often - that had been something special. When he had been able to please her. Now was not the time.  
"It was a simple task," she continued.   
"I'm not an archer," he murmured as he walked slowly, almost gropingly, down the hall. "It was not necessary to be an archer either," the voice replied sharply. "Are you no mage anymore?"  
"I have used magic," he protested. "There was a witcher..."  
"Was it him?" Now she sounded almost angry. Oh, how he hated it when she became angry. How he feared it.   
"No… no, it was someone else," he tried to explain.   
"I'm not interested," she hissed in his mind. "You know who I am concerned about. And if half a dozen witchers stand in the way, it is expected that you take care of them!"  
"How should I... how could I..."  
"Find a way!”  
  
Now her voice was so loud in him, so terribly loud, like a storm brewing directly over his head. For a moment, de Groot had to stand still, leaning against the wall. A guard at one of the opposite doors looked at him attentively. Suspiciously. He strengthened the spell that lay upon him with a few hastily mumbled words, and the guard turned the other way again.   
The sorcerer looked around quickly. He had been so engrossed in his secret conversation that he had not paid attention to his surroundings. He noticed that he was approaching his chambers. Sometimes he felt like he was going crazy, but it couldn't be that bad. Something about him was still right. His sense of direction was still there. His magic was more potent than before, due to her influence. And yet there was a subliminal feeling that something was not in its right place. Something in him.   
"You made a mistake," continued the voice, now much more appeasing. "These things happen. I have not given you an easy target."  
"I have done everything you have asked of me so far," he whispered as he followed the corridor slowly. He put one foot before the other as though he could not trust his own steps. As if maybe he could overhear something she said when he concentrated too much on his surroundings but at the same time stumbled when he didn't look where he was going. His life had become more complicated since he had met her. Soon he had lost her again, but by then, he had already fallen hopelessly for her. Deep down, he knew that she had never promised him anything. That she had probably never felt what he had felt. But it had always been enough for him to be at her service. Even now, beyond her death. He did this not only for her, not only because she had wished it. He wanted it for her.  
  
"I know that," she softly replied. "You have always tried very hard. But you must keep trying. This has now failed. You must find another way, use what you have and what you know."  
"I'm not sure..."  
"Remember everything I taught you. Remember where you are. Politics, my dear! Politics is often more brutal than simple murder."  
He thought about it. How could he use that fact for himself? Meanwhile, he was almost at the door to his rooms.   
"Listen to this," she said in his thoughts, her voice almost cheerful.   
He did not answer but tried hard to hear what she heard. Although, as a tiny thought in his mind claimed, she couldn't hear anything. But he quickly suppressed that.   
He heard nothing but footsteps in the hallway, which were moving away. The whispering of some courtiers, further away. The coughing of a guard.   
"Not with your ears," she said impatiently.   
So, he listened inward, then expanded his senses like a spider weaving a web. His eyes widened.   
"Someone is there," he whispered.  
"Wonderful," she triumphed inside him. "Your little trap worked! Now go and get your prize." 

**\- 22 -**

**They look for me but cannot find**

"I still can't believe I'm doing this," Triss murmured as she nervously looked around in all directions.  
"You don't have to do anything, just make sure no one enters. There, already open," Adan answered calmly while picking skillfully at the lock. A nearly authentic smile on his lips, he pushed open the door in invitation. Triss shook her head and stroked his mouth tenderly with a finger for a moment.  
"You should work on that," she said softly, then slipped through the door after him. If the feline was surprised by this sudden gesture, he did not let it show. Their relationship was still a secret, although Triss had already slipped out something to Emhyr and Geralt half a year ago. The subject, however, was never raisedand she herself would not do so. Adan didn't care much about it. He may have been puzzled by human behavior at times, but not by sex, and he was used to taking things as they came. He had never allowed himself to do anything else, and he usually didn't think about it. Triss did it after him, at least she tried. Another relationship with a witcher was the last thing she wanted, so she didn't consider their affair as such. So far, they had both coped well with it, and she intended to leave it at what it was for now.  
  
Both quickly looked around the room. In contrast to the previous occasion, this time the fireplace was lit, which provided some light.  
"Bedroom," Adan said quietly, pointing to the door to his right. Once more, this door was not closed and the trunk, which Adan pulled out carefully, had remained at his former place under the bed.  
"I don't know," Triss said slowly, "Shouldn’t one of us be outside keeping watch?"  
"De Groot is at the banquet… it's going to be a while yet," the elf replied calmly as he looked at the crate extensively, trying to figure out if its weight might have changed since the last time. Had de Groot taken something out or added something?  
"Nevertheless," said the sorceress quietly, and Adan, kneeling on the floor in front of the chest, looked up to her and remarked, almost amused, "You've never done this before, have you?"  
"Please excuse me for not having a career as a burglar," Triss snapped.  
  
Adan met this with a smile, and this time, it was genuine.  
"I like it," he remarked.  
"What do you _like_ about it?"  
"That you can't do something for once," came the surprisingly honest answer. Triss frowned.  
"I can't do _everything_."  
"You can do magic. This," Adan said, snapping his fingers briefly, producing a small flame, a brief flash of a witcher's sign, "Not much more than a fairground trick. You know that." Triss crossed her arms in front of her chest and bowed her head.  
"You can do much more than these signs, my dear. Before we start throwing compliments at each other, let me see that chest."  
She bent over the plain wooden box and moved her hands over it in quick succession.  
"Magically secured, indeed. But not very difficult. A simple precaution. We'll soon see, wait..."  
Adan changed his position, leaning against the bed frame behind him, and watched Triss run her fingers over the edge of the chest, then over the lock, whispering soft words. Her fingertips seemed to crackle, and Adan thought he recognized a blue glimmer in them. But that was over as quickly as it appeared, "That should have worked," Triss said softly.  
  
Immediately, the feline stretched out his hand, a gesture that promised protection and warning at the same time. "I will open it."  
Triss raised her brows. "It is safe now," she said.  
"You don't know what's inside."  
Already Adan's fingers were on the simple snap-lock over the keyhole. Triss had only removed the magic surrounding it so he still had to open the lock; yet that was no problem. The sorceress watched him and said, quite appreciatively, "That's obviously just one of your surprising abilities."  
As he put away the lock pick, Adan replied with slight confusion, "I have a feeling that was a slightly disreputable remark." Then he lifted the lock, and slowly and carefully, he opened the chest. Triss stood behind him, impatient and a little excited, and watched as he lifted the lid at a snail's pace until finally opening it.  
Both stared into the box. It was as unpretentious on the inside as it was on the outside, neither lined with fabric nor otherwise decorated - and also completely empty.

  


"What the..." began Adan, going around in the chest with his hand as if he was looking for a secret compartment. "Is it magically hidden?"  
"No," Triss replied thoughtfully after she had also put her hand in. "There's really nothing there."  
"What is this nonsense?" Adan asked angrily and slammed the lid of the chest with vigor, Triss involuntarily flinched.  
"Well, as they say: Curiosity killed the cat," a voice suddenly said from the door. Adan immediately jumped to his feet - had the short sound of the lid slamming hidden the mage's appearance? That was impossible; he must have used magic.  
Triss also seemed startled for a moment when she turned around and stared at de Groot. The mage looked at them with a scornful grin that distorted his face.  
"It will be interesting to hear what the court has to say about the Emperor's personal sorceress rummaging in other people's rooms."  
"What do you care? Have you made your own prospects for the position of advisor to the emperor?" Adan asked, and by his standards, it sounded somewhat taunting.  
  
De Groot may have set a tricky little trap for them, but he was not incredibly skillful in disguising his feelings. Even in the dim light of the room, it could be seen that for a moment his face twisted viciously into a grimace. A quick glance from the side showed Adan that Triss' fingertips were again enveloped in an unnatural glow. He groped for the knife under his clothes as unobtrusively as possible.  
De Groot continued to stare at them, his eyes seemed abnormally dark - was it just the lack of light?  
"In any case, neither of you will stand in my way," he murmured.  
"Don't do anything rash, de Groot," Triss warned him and presented her right hand. A ball of pure energy danced on her palm. Whatever the mage was up to, Adan had no doubt that she was faster.  
"I warn you, do not mess with the court sorceress and her witcher."  
  
For a moment, de Groot seemed surprised. Then, as if he heard a noise, his head suddenly recoiled. Something silver hissed through the open door, scarcely touching his face on the left side, missed Adan, who ducked in a flash. The bblade lodged into the wall at the other end of the room. Just a heartbeat later, de Groot disappeared - one moment he was standing on the doorstep, his face grimly distorted, the next came a flickering of thousands of grains of dust filled with pure energy. Only a second later, they too had vanished.  
"Just an illusion," Triss hissed.  
  
Suddenly, Birke stood in the room. "I told you, this is not for amateurs."  
The assassin, dressed entirely in black with a hood over his head, held another small knife in his hand. He walked, seemingly unfazed, to the end of the room and picked his blade out of the wall.  
"What is this? Had this not been an illusion..." Triss uttered angrily.  
"He still wouldn't have hit," Adan added, calmly. "He didn't want to."  
The assassin pointed at Adan with one of his knives in an appreciative gesture and nodded. "The more important question is, where is de Groot now? Why did he suspect you here - was there something in that box?"  
"Nothing at all," replied the feline. "Obviously, he has fooled us."  
At that moment, the doorknob on the front door turned. Everyone in the room stared spellbound in that direction. Adan had pulled his knife, Triss still hadn't broken her spell. Only Birke seemed to be unimpressed on the outside.

  


Ciri entered the adjoining room. Immediately she noticed the others in the bedroom, quietly closed the door, and urgently said, "You have to leave. Papa will have de Groot searched and arrested if he is found. There must have been an incident at the academy."  
"That is why I am here," confirmed the assassin. "I assumed de Groot would come here. His superior died; the intelligence report indicated it was by no means a natural cause. My theory was only half correct - I am still certain that de Groot is planning something, probably on his own. He must have killed the headmaster for some reason."  
"What if it's not about a coup at all, if it's just personal revenge?" Adan interjected.  
"This is ridiculous. He's not the only one who would have figured out a position at court," Triss replied. "I don't know if we should rule out a connection to other sorcerers."  
"Or the vampire," Ciri said. Birke made an impatient hand movement.  
"All of this will only be clear when we find him. The fundamental question is: Where is de Groot now, and what is he up to?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for the interlude is from "Born in a mourning hall", the chapter title is from "Majesty".
> 
> Just for the fun of it, let the chapter song be ["Wicked Witch"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxUpdlgtUzA) by Demons & Wizards.


	24. Your bane's a tearful destiny

**\- 23 -**

**Your bane’s a tearful destiny**

After Ciri leaned over them in a whisper, giving them a concise overview, a glance between the witchers was enough.  
"I'm looking for Geralt," said Eskel, "You keep watch here."  
Lambert had only nodded, and both stood up. While Eskel had left the room together with Ciri, Lambert had demonstratively sat down on one of the now empty seats beside the Emperor. At Emhyr's bemused look, he had calmly waved at one of the quiet, almost invisible servants in the background. He had taken the carafe of wine out of the hand of the approaching footman and gestured to him to leave again; whereupon he refilled the Emperor's glass and quietly said, "I don't care what it looks like, and no one pays any attention to us anyway. I'd rather be careful."  
He was right to say that no one was paying attention to them momentarily - a minstrel was spouting some horribly salacious jokes, and the crowd was already quite advanced in the consumption of alcohol.  
"Eskel is looking for Geralt," he continued. "What's wrong?"   
Wordlessly, Emhyr slipped him the document that was still lying on the table next to him. Lambert unfolded it only halfway and took a quick look at it. Then he frowned.  
"Are you saying this de Groot killed his superior?"  
"That's not what it says," Emhyr replied quietly as he continued to look stubbornly straight ahead, pretending to watch the minstrel in the middle of the room, who in the meantime had gone over to singing a very dramatic little song.  
"However, it is somewhat suspicious - and irreverent - to appear at a wedding to which he is not even invited immediately after the death of the board of directors of one of the most respectable magic academies."  
  
"What is this guy up to?" Muttered Lambert reaching for the glass next to him, not caring who it belonged to, and poured himself from the carafe. He rushed down the wine in one go. Usually, Emhyr would have commented all this with raised eyebrows, or at least he would have noticed it at all; but now he was lost in thought. Was the assassin right, even though it all sounded like a spinning mill at first? Was de Groot planning an attack? He would certainly not hide in the shadows, work with poison, or attack him from behind. What else could he be up to? It gnawed at Emhyr that he couldn't predict this, that contrary to his habits, he wasn't a few steps ahead and knew what his opponent was planning. He grabbed his glass, almost clutching it, but didn't drink out of it; just used it to remind himself to concentrate. That he needed to pay more attention to his surroundings. So, he sat upright, an imposing apparition in the light of countless candles, although he wore less jewelry tonight than many a noble lady in the room and his clothing seemed more straightforward than many a dressed-up knight. His amber eyes, almost hazelnut brown in the candles' light, dark and severe, looked around and closely took in his surroundings. Maybe he had no way to resist magic, not right now. But he would certainly not make it easy for de Groot - no matter what he planned. He just had to come.

  


In the meantime, Eskel went in search of Geralt and Yennefer. It seemed pointless to follow any tracks - the palace was extremely spacious. With the sheer number of people going in and out, tracks and smells were as fleeting as autumn leaves in the wind. However, in his opinion, a simple deduction was enough. They must have left the palace when it was time to get some fresh air, and the gardens were the most obvious solution. Eskel and Lambert had looked around a bit as soon as the opportunity arose. Although Lambert was the one who could memorize paths the quickest, Eskel believed he would find the gardens.  
  
His way led him out of the palace in an almost straight line, although finding the right exit was challenging. The size of the place was impressive, even more so its splendor. It was easy to imagine the Emperor here, much less Geralt. This whole thing was still strange anyway. No, not strange, just… unusual. Eskel and Geralt had had a deep bond since they had been children, and over the years, they had always kept in touch, much more than just through the winter meetings in Kaer Morhen. There had been letters, via a complicated system that they had devised at some point - at least that's what they had believed for a long time, until they realized that Vesemir, and probably many before him, had already laid the groundwork and used similar means of communication.  
  
In the first winter after Vesemir's death, when Eskel was alone in Kaer Morhen for the first time - although he had believed he would never revisit the place - a letter arrived from Geralt, mentioning that he was often in Vizima visiting Ciri. Months later, he used cautious and thoughtful words to describe there might be someone he was spending time with. There were no signs that would have led Eskel to draw the right conclusions. While it seemed that Geralt deliberately avoided calling a spade a spade, he apparently still had a need to address it - he occasionally wrote, 'This person I meet has a strange sense of humor` or 'I think I spend far too little time in Corvo Bianco to ever learn enough about viticulture`.  
  
One day Eskel ended up in Touissaint because an alchemist - a kind of regular customer - often required the strangest ingredients. It was the poison of archespores, a strenuous and dirty but exceptionally well-paid job. And since Eskel had decided to preserve Kaer Morhen, he could make fair use of the money - there was always something to repair on the old walls.  
After the work was done, he visited the winery, following an impulse, and of course, because he wanted to see Geralt. It turned out that he met him more or less by chance - Eskel later learned much more about the previous adventure from Lambert than from Geralt, who was happy to see him, but was very reserved about the events that had led to his last injury. Still, the joy of reunion led to a cheerful evening, and the wine - excellent by the way, though not from this winery - loosened Geralt's tongue. "I think I have fallen in love," he had said, and Eskel had sneered.  
"What do you mean, you _think_?“  
"He made a confession of love to me. Can you imagine that?" Geralt had said, and Eskel remembered his surprise well.  
"He? Who is _he_?“ He asked, and Geralt had started to laugh out loud and almost babbled when he had answered "Emhyr var Emreis," and they had both laughed and drank even more. But the next morning, Eskel had listened to a conversation between Geralt and his housekeeper while he himself was still lying in bed with a buzzing skull. Geralt had sat at the table, and although they had spoken quietly, Eskel heard every word. Marlene, as she was probably called, had given Geralt a good going-over. At the end, she had said, "He loves you, and you love him, what is there to think about?" After a while, Geralt got up, and at some point he had stepped on Eskel's bed and, somehow confused, apologized and said he had to go, he knew now what he had to do, he knew where he belonged and stuff like that that sounded more like the babble of a drunk than that of someone with a proper hangover. Later, Eskel had learned from Lambert that it was really about the Emperor, and even then, he had thought of a silly joke. Until the invitation he had received, on the most delicate parchment, bearing the Emperor's seal.  
  
And now he stood in almost holy halls, and still could not believe what would happen in a few days. He left the palace and wandered somewhat purposefully along the gravel paths that he felt led to the gardens. By now, it was dark out, calm and quiet; only occasionally, torches showed the way, and no one was to be seen. The high walls were almost oppressive from outside; they had more in common with a fortress than with the noble place they held. Eskel spotted ivy-covered arches that showed him the way to the gardens. It was suddenly straightforward to follow them, the air still held Yennefer's scent. She and Geralt had been gone for some time. Eskel began to wonder if this was cause for concern - if only for Geralt's health, Eskel knew from his own experience that the confusion and nausea remained for a while after such a blow to the head.  
  
The gravel crunched under his soft soles, an unusual feeling, just like the festive clothes. Eskel followed the smell, almost instinctually. However, he kept his eyes on the ground, though more out of habit, as if his eyes were trying to make sure he was on the right track by additionally checking for traces. A new note suddenly mixed into the smell. Eskel stopped because something about it caused him almost physical discomfort. He traced the scent, faded out lilac and gooseberries, and tried to find what was underneath. The smell was unusual, strong, and intense, almost like something burnt. Slowly Eskel walked on, strangely alarmed. Finally, he saw Geralt, a few steps ahead of him in a kind of niche, half-hidden by high hedges - he was kneeling on the ground, his head in his hands.  
  
Eskel accelerated his steps. "Geralt! What's wrong?"  
Geralt didn't seem to notice him at first. He remained huddled on the floor. Eskel, now worried, lowered himself to one knee and tried to see Geralt's face. Still, he held his head so that nothing was visible.  
"What happened? Where is Yennefer?"  
Now he heard him. Slowly Geralt lowered his hands, his face distorted in pain for a moment, but that seemed to be a pain that had already passed - now he looked at Eskel as if he only now really understood who was sitting next to him.  
  
"The vampire has her," he answered in a choked voice. "He has used me as a sleeper.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Noldor".


	25. The dawn took them all

**\- 24 -**

**The dawn took them all**

The banquet festivities had passed their peak, at least as far as getting blind drunk by most of the guests was concerned. By now, it had become almost unbearably warm in the hall, although those present were unable to simply leave when they wanted to, unlike Emhyr. He decided to make use of his privilege now because a noticeable tension had taken hold of him. Lambert followed him like an additional shadow, he could not move through the palace without being accompanied by guards anyway. Lambert stayed right behind him, alert and tense, like a predator ready to jump out of that ridiculous suit at any moment.  
  
Almost involuntarily, Emhyr's steps led him to his study, his mind telling him that was most logical. He needed answers; the Captain would find him there, as would Merigold. He was correct in assuming the latter, as just before he and Lambert reached the door to the room, the sorceress turned the corner, feline in tow and Ciri directly behind them. She suddenly stopped, looked around, and shouted with evident surprise; "Where the hell did the assassin go?"  
Emhyr frowned but Triss was already hissing at her to be quiet, then she stepped forward and opened the door to the study before Emhyr had the chance. It made an almost unreal feeling creep up in him again as if things were being taken out of his hands. Had the wedding preparations softened him that much? Had he lost control? Those thoughts were forced back.  
  
One by one, everyone entered the room with Adan being the last, closing the door with a lingering look of scrutiny behind him.  
"The assassin seems out of control. We should be careful," he said.  
"Meaning what?" asked Emhyr as he leaned back against his desk in an almost casual manner, looking at the small group. Ciri seemed tense, Merigold determined and the witchers, as usual, were not alarmed but alert.  
Adan reported briefly what had happened in de Groot's chambers. This was indeed disturbing news, but it was the assassin in particular that seemed to concern him most.  
"I am afraid he has decided to deal with de Groot on his own," he said.  
"What's the problem?" Lambert grunted. "One less for us to worry about. If anyone can find him it’s this assassin."  
"We cannot simply allow _murder_ in the palace,“ snapped Emhyr, sharply. "We are basing evidence from guesses and the intelligence report, which is not very detailed. The mage must be found, and an official investigation must be initiated."  
He didn't even want to think about the consequences of the death of one of the most powerful mages of the academy - just here in this palace so shortly before the wedding.

  


At that moment, the door was ripped open with verve, Geralt bursting in. Behind him, Eskel could be seen, his expression serious and somewhat confused. The guards in front of the door tried to have a short discussion with him - he shook them off, closing the door behind him.  
Geralt, hardly in the room, exclaimed, "I remember again."  
He seemed restless, agitated; he took a few steps into the room, turned around, his fists clenched. Then he turned around again, leaning heavily on the desk right next to Emhyr. Everything about him was tense, from his clenched jaw to the protruding veins on his hands as he clawed into the tabletop, his body seemed to be screaming for release. Not even Emhyr dared to touch him, though he only had to stretch out his hand.  
"What?" he asked carefully. "What do you remember?"  
Geralt ran his fingers through his hair; he seemed jittery. "It makes no sense," he said quietly, not looking at anyone. "I remember Yennefer. In this house, where I woke up later. Now I recall that I had come to before, and there was Yennefer, and she said something to me. Just one word. And earlier, in the hall, this young woman came and said the same word. The rest is a blur, until the moment the vampire disappeared with Yen."  
Triss and Ciri made a surprised sound almost simultaneously. Ciri went to Geralt, grabbed his arm, forced him to look at her.  
"What do you mean, they _disappeared_?"  
Geralt did not turn around even now. His muscles seemed to tense further under Ciri's grip.  
"Somehow, he used me as a sleeper," he repeated what he had already said to Eskel but hadn’t elaborated further. "They used the same word. Yen and that woman."  
Lambert snapped his fingers as if he had an idea. "Damn sleight of hand," he cursed, "Mind control, simplified and intensified at the same time by the concussion. That alone could have killed you, damn it."  
"There goes my idea of luring the vampire into the palace," muttered Adan. Emhyr shot him a sharp glance.  
"How the hell does Yennefer fit in?" Triss asked. "She's not..."  
"No, she certainly didn't turn to this vampire," Ciri hissed angrily. "She did not willingly go with him. Geralt?"  
For the first time, he looked at her, but in his gaze lay confusion and helplessness.  
"I don't know," he admitted, "I was completely blank. When I came to, I only saw him take her."  
"This is all nonsense," shouted Ciri angrily. "I do not want to believe that. What reason would she have?"  
"Let's not jump to conclusions," Emhyr said with more confidence in his voice than he truly felt. "How is this vampire to be found now? We cannot…“

A knock on the door interrupted him. "What the hell?"  
Adan was closest and opened the door. In front of him stood a young woman and beside her, one of the guards.  
"Your Majesty," said the guard, looking past Adan, "This woman here claims..."  
"You," Geralt suddenly called out and stormed towards the door, grabbing the woman by the arm. He dragged her into the room without paying attention to the guard as Adan slammed the door shut. Geralt pushed the woman recklessly with her back to the wall, grabbed her by the throat and asked, dangerously quiet, "What have you done to me?"  
"Geralt," hissed Triss and took a step toward him but he stretched out the other arm as if to repel her. The mood in the room had suddenly changed; everyone's tension was almost tangible.  
"Geralt," said Emhyr without raising his voice. "Stop it."  
The apparent authority in his tone seemed to have an effect. It wasn't a voice he usually used when dealing with Geralt, not for a long time now. Geralt let go of the woman, raising his hands as if to make it clear that he would not do anything, at least not for the moment.  
  
"Wait a minute," Ciri said, squinting her eyes together, coming closer. "I... I have seen you before." She looked closely at the woman as if she wanted to memorize her face – no… as if she tried recalling an old memory. The woman nodded.  
"Beauclair," she returned quietly. Ciri nodded.  
"The voice, I remember. When Yen and I were in town, you tripped, you touched her… A _doppler_?"  
Remarkably fast, she had drawn the right conclusions. She turned around and said into the room, "She touched Yen, back in Beauclair. Yen became suspicious, but I distracted her. Who could have known…?"  
"No magic would have discovered this," Triss said quickly. "So, tell us, _are_ you a doppler?"  
At this, the woman nodded slowly.

Mistrust and disbelief in the room were nearly palpable. It was probably the reason why she suddenly began to change in front of everyone and without any further words. The sight was, to put it mildly, unpleasant. For a moment, the woman seemed to lose her shape completely, as if made of unformed clay: her hair changed color and became shorter, her limbs stretched first, then reshaped. Her whole figure changed, she grew bigger, stockier, and the way the naked skin on her arms suddenly seemed to turn into fabric bordered on disgusting. It was unnatural, that's what Emhyr thought, who watched the woman's transformation with scientific curiosity.  
"Very funny," Lambert finally said drily, after a short time it became clear to which figure the woman - which they didn't even know if she was really a woman - was changing. In the end, after the eyes had finally adjusted to the witcher's amber color and unique shape, an exact copy of Lambert was standing in front of them. The real Lambert squinted his eyes together and said, "But you would have had to touch me for that… _damn_. By the stables, right?"  
The doppler nodded.  
"I'm afraid this was pure coincidence. I had no intention of... well, maybe I did. I guess it's in my nature to play it safe - it can never hurt to save certain forms. Would you prefer my real shape?" asked the copy with the voice of the witcher.  
  
"We would prefer answers," said Geralt, seemingly without some of his restlessness and anger. He leaned next to Emhyr at the table, who dared to lay a hand lightly on the small of the witcher’s back. Geralt gave him a quick glance and, against all custom, his expression was difficult to interpret.  
  
"l... I cannot reconcile this with my conscience," said the false Lambert. "It's true, I helped the vampire. But not of my own free will, you can believe me. And I had no idea what he was up to."  
"That's only half the truth, isn't it?" asked Ciri, watching the doppler carefully. At that moment, he was utterly Lambert, and no magic, no witcher's medallion would have indicated otherwise. Certainly, he spoke in a tone that the real witcher would probably never have struck, but he spoke with his voice. And yet for some reason, Ciri seemed to be able to see behind this façade. Or she was bluffing very well - nobody could have said that.  
"Wait a moment," threw in Lambert, the real Lambert, in his genuine, typically always slightly sarcastic tone of voice. "Can you change shape first? This makes me nervous. The girl again, for my sake."  
"I would rather..." muttered the doppler, and then he changed shape again. Instead of the inconspicuous young woman, he soon stood before them in the shape of an equally ordinary middle-aged man, without any special features, a human being whom one would easily overlook amid a crowd. It seemed evident that he preferred these forms of inconspicuousness, of drowning in the masses. It was not to be blamed on him, considering his species' fate - there were very few of them left; they were practically extinct.  
  
But nobody was interested in such details at the time. "Go ahead," Geralt said succinctly. Emhyr felt his tightness, he felt the still clenched muscles right under his hand, although Geralt leaned against that hand very slightly.  
"He paid well, it is true," the doppler continued. "I don't know how he tracked me down, but one day he stood in front of me and promised me a good sum for simple work."  
"What is your name?" Ciri interrupted him in a gentle voice.  
The doppler took a deep breath. "Frids," he replied quietly, avoiding eye contact.  
"Frids," Ciri repeated. "What is your real work?"  
"I'm a pickpocket," Frids replied, and pushed, almost defiantly, "And not a bad one, I should like to think."  
Lambert snorted. "I like that. Stealing other people's hard-earned money out of their pockets and then possibly making off with their characters, too."  
Adan raised his hand briefly to interrupt the conversation and threw in, "I've never seen a vexling, but isn't their nature meek?"  
"They are not aggressive, that's true," Geralt answered. "They do not understand the killing instinct, they’re not able to copy it. If he would attack you in your own form, he could imitate almost everything you do, up to the signs. But he would never be able to kill you."  
"But that doesn't mean that they are automatically peaceful or good-natured individuals," Eskel interjected.  
"I am standing right here, I can hear you," the doppler replied sourly.  
"Go on," Ciri urged.  
"As I was saying, the vampire promised me a lot of money. I was only to take the form of a certain lady if he demanded it. That was all he said at first, and in preparation, I met you in Touissaint, making sure I could touch said woman."  
For a moment, the doppler stared into nothingness, as if he was remembering. Or as if he was trying to repress the memory.  
  
"Of course I instantly knew she was a sorceress, when I touched her. But after I saved her shape, the vampire did not get back to me for months, although he had paid me in advance. I was on the verge of forgetting it all when he suddenly stood before me again, urging me to accompany him immediately, saying the matter would take place. I had no idea what _the matter_ was. Turned out I was to distract the guards outside the Emperor’s chambers. I didn’t ask, although it made me uncomfortable."  
"With magic?" Triss asked. The doppler nodded.  
"We had no reports of Yennefer being in the palace," said Ciri. "She is not exactly inconspicuous."  
"Nobody saw me. Or at least, nobody remembered," replied Frids quietly. The memory seemed to make him as uncomfortable as the act he was ordered to do. He was not the only one who felt uneasy. Emhyr didn't like to think that this perfidious plan had basically been quite simple.  
"After this, he took me to an abandoned old house," Frids continued, "Shortly after I thought he was going to murder and bury me, he dragged this witcher there."  
Frids nervously gestured at Geralt and continued, "There had never been any talk of violence. He said that there had been an accident, but there was a lot of blood..."  
"Did you know at the time that he was a vampire?" Ciri asked and looked at him jarringly. Frids lowered his eyes.  
"When he offered me the money, he told me to touch him, but not to try to take his shape. If I touched him, I would know immediately why. And yes, then I knew. I think if I ever tried to take his shape, I'd probably crack like poorly fired clay."  
"Because he doesn't just have an outer shape," Eskel interjected, and the doppler nodded.  
"Yes, because of what he is in addition. And I knew who he was, too," he continued, pointing briefly at Geralt again. "There are so few of us left, and the story of the doppler, which turned into the White Wolf, is a legend. Anyway... it was too late to do anything. Too late to run away or refuse or... just too late.“  
  
He raised his hands to his eyes as if he wanted to cover them, then he let them sink again in a helpless gesture.  
"He told me to take the shape of the lady as soon as the witcher came to and whisper a word in his ear. It was a simple, meaningless word, I had no idea what it meant."  
"But you knew that the vampire had the ability to control his thoughts," Lambert said astutely. "You had taken his form and with it all his knowledge."  
"Not all his knowledge," Frids replied with a slightly distorted face as if it were an almost obscene thought. "But enough, yes. He had done something to the witcher, then it went wrong, why? I don't know. Then this _accident_ happened, and he tried again, although the witcher was not even conscious. I knew then that what I had to do could not be good but had to trigger something. It wasn't my concern, was it?"  
He almost defiantly pointed out the latter.  
"No, why should it be? You were paid," Geralt said sarcastically.  
"Stop it," Emhyr returned. His voice echoed through the whole room, making everyone sit up and take notice. "All this nonsense doesn't interest me. There is only one thing I want to know: how are we supposed to find this vampire who, for whatever reason, has the sorceress in his power?"  
"I want to make it up to you," the Doppler pointed out. "It wasn't right, it just wasn't right, I didn't know..."  
"Stop stuttering, man. What do you know?"  
Frids took another deep breath.  
  
"I know where the vampire is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "The Bard's Song - The Hobbit".


	26. Our soul’s aflamed and we’re on our own now

**\- 25 -**

**Our soul’s aflamed and we’re on our own now**

Geralt pushed himself off the table and took a step towards the doppler who was already leaning against the wall. Although, it looked as if he wanted to fall through it at that moment but knew there was no possibility of retreat. He seemed to fear another attack.  
Geralt only said, "You can take us there?"  
"You can't be serious," Triss said behind him.  
He turned and replied, "You, Ciri, Eskel, Lambert and me. Don't you think that's enough? If Regis was right and this vampire was really after a second conjunction of the spheres, his plan was obviously to get the most powerful sorceress there is. No offense, Triss."  
She brushed the remark aside with a vague gesture. "Yen has extraordinary powers, that's for sure. And she can be ruthless when necessary."  
"Precisely," Geralt continued. " _No one_ can accomplish the vampire wants, not even Yennefer. And she will never agree to that either. But we don't know what he will do once he realizes that, and I won't let that happen."  
  
"One is missing from your enumeration," Triss said calmly as if the matter had already been decided.  
"Adan stays here," Geralt replied immediately. He turned to Emhyr, his eyes showing something between regret and despair, and at the same time, much more.  
"I know what you want to say. I know how many soldiers are here. But you know that is not enough for me. And if I could, I wouldn't go, but I must."  
Emhyr looked at him calmly, almost casually. He wasn't worried about his own safety.  
"If you're doing this out of misplaced guilt, Geralt..."  
"It's not that, and you know it."  
For a moment, the two just looked at each other, no one spoke; it was as if everyone in the room was holding their breath.  
Almost reluctantly, Geralt finally said, "I trust him."  
And Emhyr understood what he meant. He trusted the witcher as much as those he had grown up with when he entrusted Emhyr's life to him. Geralt did not turn around at that moment, did not look at Adan, and Adan's face did not betray what he was thinking. Did he understand what it was all about? It was hard to tell.  
"I don't know if we should be offended," Lambert broke the silence - of course. "Just a few months ago, you called him an annoying..." Eskel, standing right next to him, kicked him in the shins and gave him a warning look.  
  
"The confidence honors me, I guess," the feline said slowly. "But... you're taking quite a posse on your little adventure, and you expect me to protect the Emperor all by myself? While the assassin runs around outside, possibly causing us more problems?"  
"You are not alone, the palace is full of guards," Geralt replied.  
"Who must not know about all this," Adan countered.  
"That's not important either, they know who they must protect, that's enough. And I need Triss. If we want to have a chance, she and Yennefer must try joining forces. Ciri is faster than the vampire, I bet, and that is our advantage. Two additional witchers may seem excessive to you, but if you have never dealt with a higher vampire before, just believe me that it is necessary to use every advantage. The threat from de Groot is abstract."  
"He almost hit him with an arrow," Adan said, pointing to Emhyr. Geralt's eyes widened, and he glanced briefly at Emhyr.  
"He didn't mention that, eh?"  
"Because there was no need," said Emhyr calmly. "He missed. And we can't be sure it was de Groot." Then he looked at Geralt in earnest. "Whatever you want to do, do it now and as discreetly as possible."  
"Then let's go," Geralt said and turned away, but Emhyr grabbed him wordlessly by the arm, forcing him to wait.  
It was Lambert, of all people, who seemed to sense what was going on, and he said, "We all have to get our equipment. Ciri, do you have your sword here?"  
"I always have it with me," she returned.  
"Good, then get it, let's go," he said busily, shooing everyone out of the room.

When the door closed behind them, Geralt said softly to Emhyr, who still held him by the arm, "I don't need your permission."  
"No? I'm not giving it to you either. But I know you’ll do it anyway. I just want to make sure you're doing it for the right reasons."  
By candlelight, both their eyes glowed amber as they exchanged knowing looks. Geralt stretched out his hands, grabbed Emhyr’s, and held them tight.  
"I know what I am doing," he answered. "Even if it wasn't about Yennefer - and you know what she means to Ciri - we would never be safe from this vampire. Never."  
It was clear what he meant: that _Emhyr_ would never be safe. Even if their lives were dangerous anyway, they could handle anything. But a vampire who never gave up?  
"You cannot kill him."  
"Perhaps not. But we can make his recovery so difficult that we won't hear from him for the next fifty years."  
Emhyr was silent for a moment, carefully glancing at Geralt, and there was so much in that look that it almost made Geralt waver. That he almost couldn't do it. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to leave him here alone, protected by a witcher or not; he would still be alone. As if he had read his mind, Emhyr said, "Just come back."  
"I always come back, don't I?"  
There was so much sincerity in Geralt's smile, so much _love_ , that Emhyr felt the same as he had before. He almost couldn't do it, couldn't let him go. Yet, neither could he retain him.  
But he could hold him. And he did, he pulled him close and just held him for a while.  
  
No sooner had Geralt finally left than Adan re-entered the study, closed the door, and stopped in front of it, waiting.  
"So, what are we going to do?" he asked.  
"About de Groot?"  
Emhyr walked towards the windows, and Adan saw with some satisfaction that he was approaching them sideways - he avoided showing an obvious target, and it was easy to imagine from whom he had learned this. He pushed the heavy curtain aside with one hand and looked outside, but the glass reflected only a candle’s flame and his own face. "The mage is wanted throughout the palace, even if this is as discreet as possible," he continued. "He cannot hide forever."  
"He could be far away by now, gone through a portal or..."  
"Then we wouldn't have to worry about him anymore, would we?"  
Emhyr turned to Adan.  
"If he really is up to something, he will not disappear. He will wait for an opportunity. We should give him one."  
"A trap?"  
  
Out of sheer habit - or maybe on purpose, it was hard to tell - Emhyr sat down behind his desk. He put his hands on the tabletop very calmly, for once. It was noticeable that he didn't start drumming around with his fingers on the table like he did when he felt impatient. He was utterly calm. Emhyr did not answer; he seemed to be waiting for Adan to draw the conclusions independently.  
"I suppose Geralt doesn't know about this," the feline finally said.  
Emhyr just tilted his head slightly, a gesture that seemed to say, " _Do I really need to answer that?_ "  
"I don't like it," Adan followed up.  
"If I cared what my subjects liked when they received a commission, would I be here today?"  
"I am not one of your subjects."  
"Call it what you will, you're hired as a witcher, not as an entertainer. However, no ordinary one - your skills are similar to the assassin's, and we will use that to our advantage."  
Alan's dark eyes sparkled in the light of the candles. Much of what was said about Emhyr may have been exaggerated, but not his sense of finding the right words when necessary. Adan was not susceptible to flattery, nor did he understand half of it. Still, he did understand the challenge behind the insinuations.  
"Say I bite. What should this trap look like?" he finally asked.  
  
Emhyr did not smile; his smile was reserved for other occasions. He did not even move the corners of his mouth. But an attentive observer might have noticed the tiny change in his facial expression, a miniscule lift to his brows. Emhyr leaned forward, supported his arms on the tabletop, and began to explain his plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Another stranger me".


	27. In magic spell I fall

**\- 26 -**

**In magic spell I fall**

At this late hour they would have been a sensational sight if the celebrants were not still engaged, and the corridors of the palace would have been as full as by day. Three witchers armed to the teeth who, thanks to the court sorceress's authority, the heiress to the throne and the future husband of the Emperor, had their weapons returned in no time at all. Said heiress was strangely dressed for her rank and carried a sword herself. The sorceress had also exchanged her delicate dress for more comfortable men’s trousers. Unsurprisingly, only the doppler in the shape of an ordinary man without any special features made a completely inconspicuous impression.  
  
They had gathered at one of the rear exits in the courtyard before Ciri spoke up.  
"We could do this without you, you know," she said to Geralt with barely perceptible hesitation in her voice.  
"She's right," Triss supported her. "You are about to get married, and your head is very obviously far from okay. I don't know if–"  
"You don't seriously believe that I would ask you to do something like that?" Geralt interrupted sternly.  
"But we would," Eskel simply said, and even Lambert nodded.  
"I know that," Geralt replied gently. "But this is my business, above all. He used me once to get Emhyr. A second time for Yennefer. If he wants to mess with me, let him do it in person. Where do we find the vampire?" he turned to Frids.  
"Wait," the doppler replied hesitantly. "What happens to me if I tell you where he is?”   
Geralt gave him a severe look.  
"You will not only tell us where he is. You will accompany us."  
"What?" Frids almost squealed. "If I show my face there again, I'm screwed. He will know that I have betrayed him!"  
"You'd be screwed in any case," Geralt replied. "No matter what shape you take, he finds you. You are safest in our presence and besides, you're our insurance."  
"I’m your _what_?“ Frids seemed visibly nervous now, sweat beading on his forehead.  
  
"I'm sorry, but we will need your skills," Geralt continued.  
"Geralt, what are you up to?" Triss positioned herself between him and the doppler; her look was piercing.   
"We don't need him," she said. "Just let him tell us–"  
"Yes, we do," he replied, stubborn as always and firmly determined. "He saved Yennefer's form and her abilities."  
"Not all abilities," Frids quickly interjected.  
"Wait, you want to try to trick the vampire - with the doppler?" Eskel threw in. "That's pretty damn risky."  
"You... you can't just exchange me and leave me with the vampire," Frids shouted indignantly and fearfully at the same time.  
"Nobody is planning to do that," Geralt said appeasingly. "I just want to leave all options open for us. We will take care of your safety, let’s hurry. Now, where is the vampire?"  
  
Frids was clearly hesitant, weighing his options. But… what options did he have? It was true, he wouldn't be safe if the vampire should succeed in overcoming this array of fighters - then it would be his turn in any case. The vampire would know that he had betrayed him, one way or another. He did not want to see him again, no way, but he had no choice, Frids had gotten himself into this and there was no escaping it.  
  
"He will have brought the sorceress to the abandoned count’s manor," the doppler finally replied.  
"Are you kidding me? To where he took me?" Geralt asked incredulously.  
"Do you remember how far away it is?" Ciri asked.  
Geralt pondered. "Only a few hours, and unlike I did, we’ll have horses–"  
Triss interrupted him. "Wait."  
She turned to the doppler. "When you took on Yennefer's shape, you had her skills, right?"  
"Not all," Frids repeated stubbornly. "I will be able to cast spells, but the witcher here has already told you, I can't kill anyone; it won't work."  
"You shall not kill anyone. Change into her," Triss said impatiently.  
  
"Right now?" he asked, and she nodded. Frids turned into the sorceress and even if they had all seen it several times now, it was still a sight hard to bear. Ciri looked away, whether out of disgust or reverence was not clear. At the same time, the witchers watched the spectacle with professional curiosity. All except for Geralt, who did not know what Triss was getting at, he was impatient and wanted to get the matter over with. Finally, the doppler had fully changed into Yennefer.  
  
"How much of the building did you see?" asked Triss.  
"I... I came on a horse, right across the old street. It's hardly used since they built a turnoff. I saw the building only in the dark and only from the front, but I might know the way."  
"Open a portal, right on the path, in front of the house. If you can, at a point that is not visible from the building," Triss told him.  
"Are you insane? You want the doppler to create a portal?" Geralt looked at Triss as if she had lost her mind. But she just snorted scornfully.  
"Geralt, if everything you say about these creatures is true, this will work. Yen's ability to create portals is outstanding, and this is safe, as Frids knows the place. And by the way - do I have to remind you who linked an unsafe teleport with an even more unsafe anchor portal half a year ago?"  
It was difficult to argue against this. It might be a little unfair to remind Geralt of this - it had been an act of desperation. This here was not necessary; they could reach the old villa conventionally, yet Triss seemed completely sure that it would work. "Do it," Geralt finally said and nodded at the doppler.  
  
In the guise of Yennefer, the doppler raised her slender hands. The spell seemed like something entirely natural for them. How it was to be performed was not only in the sorceress’ memory; the power she needed to do it was not only in her thoughts. The doppler united all of this and accessed everything as if it belonged to himself. At that moment, he was Yennefer. He knew how to create a portal and how to choose the place for it. And so, a teleport whirled open right in front of them, a bright blue gate of pure energy, blurred at the edges and irresistible inside. Immediately afterward, he slipped back into his previous form, that of the inconspicuous young man.  
  
"Gods, that was strange," he said.  
"But you had already copied Yennefer," the sorceress reminded him.  
"Sure, and I knew at that moment that she was a sorceress. But until I had to take her shape, I did not know her abilities. And when I was supposed to do it, I did not use them. At that moment, I was only her voice and her appearance."  
"And that was flawless," growled Geralt. "Let's go."  
"Wait," Eskel said, rummaging in his pockets. Then he handed Lambert and Geralt each a small vial.  
Geralt held it close to his eyes and said, approvingly: "Black blood? When did you find the time to make that?"  
Eskel seemed to smile slightly. "I'm always prepared, you know me. I made it as soon as we were talking about a vampire."  
The witchers looked at each other and nodded. Geralt took a last look at Ciri and Triss, both looked determined. Then one by one, they entered the teleport.

  


The portal worked perfectly fine, as Triss had suspected - Frids had suspected it, too, but that had been more of an instinct. This thought came directly from Yennefer's memories and her entire experience although he could only access what was… but that was enough. Creating the portal had been like second nature, as if throwing a handful grain to starving chickens. It led them onto a path, almost a real road, right in front of a broad, practically endless hedge, in the middle of which a large, iron gate rose.  
"I remember this," Geralt said softly, with one hand already on the iron bars, as if he needed the physical contact to make sure that he was not dreaming.  
Triss held him back; she put a hand on his outstretched arm and said, "This may as well be a trap."  
"No, it _is_ a trap," he replied as he turned to her. In the darkness, the sorceress’s red hair seemed almost as gray as his. Still, he could clearly see her features - a little worried, mainly determined, mostly because of him.  
"It is not without reason that he lures me right here. He could have taken Yen anywhere, to places he knew I wouldn't find her, even with the help of the doppler. I know he's playing with me, Triss. But does he know what sort of help I have?"  
"He will definitely count on me," Ciri said grimly.  
"Exactly. It is guaranteed that he is prepared. For him, this is a game and I'm fed up with it." Geralt growled, pushing the entrance of the portal with verve.  
"This is the last chance," he began, but Lambert simply walked past him through the now wide-open gate, his sword already in hand.  
"Since when do you talk so much?" Eskel chuckled, patting Geralt on the shoulder briefly as he passed by, following Lambert.   
  
The doppler was the only one who put on a skeptical - no, rather anxious - face. He understood so much that the witcher had already met the vampire and that this was obviously a very personal matter, even if the exact constellations were not clear to him. Frids realized that the witcher had formed strong alliances. However, he was still afraid to follow him. The others didn't seem to feel that way - the doppler had never seen such determined people before. The thought that this could be a trap - or, in the witcher's opinion, was one - filled Frid's heart with great fear. He could take on any shape he once had stored, and for a time, he too would feel the determination and fearlessness of that shape. And yet, beneath it all, he would still be himself, and he himself did not want to be there at all.  
  
After a gentle bend in the path that appeared behind the gate, the house could finally be seen - an old, worn and rotten mansion, which must have been beautiful once. The building lay in complete darkness. No light was to be seen behind the smashed windows and crumbling shutters of the manor and, as if on cue, Triss murmured, "You can see in the dark, but Ciri and I will have to turn on a light in there sometime."  
"The vampire will know we are there before you do so," Eskel replied quietly. "It won't make much difference."  
They approached the building slowly and carefully, although not only could nothing be seen from inside, but also nothing could be heard. The witchers seemed to be in a constant state of heightened alertness, their limbs tensed, their swords still loose in their hands, yet always ready to use them.   
  
Ciri and Triss were also curious and attentive, although the scenery seemed almost unnaturally calm. For a moment, Geralt wondered if the doppler might have lied to them. He turned around with a strange look on his face. Frids had no idea why the sparkling cat eyes, these peculiar eyes of the witcher, were looking at him, examining him. He felt his distrust almost physically, and in the end, he couldn't blame him. There were reasons to mistrust the doppler. Finally, Geralt turned around again, looked ahead, and pointed to the entrance. It was the same double-winged entrance door from which he had fled only recently.  
"The main entrance," he said in a low voice.  
"Shall we see if there are any back entrances?" Lambert asked promptly.  
"We shouldn't split up," Triss gave to consider. Geralt shook his head.  
"I don't know what exactly he expects, but it might be advantageous if he doesn't know who he's dealing with right away."  
He nodded at Lambert, and Ciri said, "I'll go with him."  
Geralt pushed the entrance open. His right hand almost involuntarily grasped the handle of his sword tighter. "Let's go," he finally said, after Ciri and Lambert had left to look for another entrance. Then he entered the building. Frids was the last one to follow him, and to him, it almost seemed as if everyone was swallowed by the darkness of the house. An unreal, eerie feeling crept upon him. He stopped at the threshold, looked back for a moment. There lay the path, lonely and dark, but safer than anything that lay before him. But there was no turning back.   
  
The doppler entered the old mansion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Wizard's crown".


	28. Yet everything, it shall go down

**\- 27 -**

**Yet everything, it shall go down**

"You do not seem to be afraid at all," the vampire remarked, unclear whether he found this astounding or impressive. Yennefer looked at him disparagingly. It was clear that she found him as unimpressive as their surroundings - the strange old building he had brought her into. Nothing but dust, cobwebs, and memories. It was very dark in the room where he had taken her after they landed in the courtyard of this mansion following a disturbing journey that the sorceress would rather not remember. She had let him guide her through the house without much resistance, hardly able to make plans, although she was thinking feverishly. The darkness in the whole building was oppressive, although it was no obstacle for the vampire, of course. It took Yennefer's eyes a while to get used to it, but even now, and even though they were both standing next to one of the large, half-decayed windowsills, she saw the vampire's countenance only as a pale silhouette.  
  
"And you seem to find that strange," she countered, "Did it never occur to you that you should be the one to be afraid?"  
The vampire - Anies, she remembered, perhaps it was important to know his name - emitted a soft laugh. Yennefer felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but she didn't let on.  
"Me? Why exactly should I be afraid, my dear?"  
The sorceress glanced out the window, but the darkness outside was no less impenetrable than inside. "Have you never been told the story of what happened to your friend Regis?" she asked as she turned to him. Her look was almost a stare as she tried to catch his expression. "It was a mage who…"  
A scornful grin of the vampire brought her to a halt, and he quickly interrupted her, "Believe me, my dear, I probably know more about that than you do."  
"If that be so," she replied, quickly recovering her composure. "Perhaps you would like to enlighten me." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.  
The vampire's answer was simply an incredibly swift approach towards the sorceress. When he faced her just a hand's breadth away, he drew his handsome lips into a broad grin, the only purpose being to show his sharp teeth. This had an effect even on Yennefer. He withdrew almost as quickly, creating distance between them again. Yennefer noticed with surprise that she had held her breath for a moment. _Yenna_ , she scolded herself. _Stop it. Focus, think, let him talk._ And so he talked.

  


"Know that I have studied at length... with this case," he began. Yennefer saw him make a gesture, a little hand movement, but it was so dark that she hardly recognized anything. But his next words gave her a clue. "Vilgefortz used assistive devices that were difficult to obtain."  
"He killed him with his own hands," Yennefer threw in.  
"Firstly, he did not _kill_ him," said Anies.  
"Well, of course not, I meant..."  
"And _secondly_ , the power that came from his hands was not his own. Not completely, anyway. Don't you think I know that the power of you sorcerers is limited? That it is necessary to resort to additional means from time to time? Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Surely some of you are more powerful than others… I've heard a lot about you, for example." He grinned, baring those bright canines once more.  
  
Yennefer's violet eyes flashed. Her expression hardened.  
"Is that so?" she replied coolly. "In this case, I must disappoint you. Assire may have promised you much, but a second conjunction of the spheres exceeds every mage's abilities on the continent, I can assure you. Not even all of them together could pull that off."  
In a kind of thoughtful gesture, the vampire tapped his nose - at that moment, he was frighteningly reminiscent of Regis, Yennefer thought. She wondered if she could rely on the help of Geralt's old friend to fight this vampire here - if he even arrived in time. It wasn't that she didn't trust herself to take him on. She knew her abilities exactly. Unfortunately, he was right - magic alone was hardly a proven remedy against a higher vampire, and she had no tools at her disposal. However, she did not believe that he could resist the concentrated power of several witchers and two sorceresses. They could and would seriously harm him. He had to know that. He had to know that Geralt had powerful allies. It annoyed Yennefer that this vampire was so challenging to see through. What was he up to?  
  
"You're right," he answered to her surprise. "She did not promise me what you believe, by the way. Her promise was supposed to be the key, but this turned out to be nonsense in retrospect. Yes, it was a mistake to believe her; I am not ashamed to admit it. However, unlike all of you, even you magicians, I have enough time to deal with the intricacies of magic and my wishes for as long as I want."  
Yennefer was silent for a moment, let his words sink. "So you don't think I can help you with this _project_?"  
He laughed again. "Oh, my dear," he answered. "Do you have any idea why the sorceress var Anahid tried to use me? What motive could she have had?"  
She frowned. "I don't know much about it," she reluctantly admitted. And that was true. Ciri had told her what she knew because for obvious reasons, Yennefer had refrained from learning the complete story from Geralt himself. A ridiculous little touch of jealousy, she thought now. Was the key to the vampire's motives really hidden in the information? She thought quickly. "But for all I know," she finally continued, "In the end, it was all a kind of revenge. Revenge against the Emperor."  
  
"You see, it's very simple," said the vampire with a renewed, fanged smile, without any humor in his voice. "The oldest motive in the world."  
"You want revenge?" Now it was the sorceress's turn to laugh. It was a hard, unpleasant sound that echoed for a moment on the bare stone walls.  
"Revenge for what? For not getting what you wanted? Even though you realized it was a futile endeavor?"  
The vampire shook his head. His ridiculously long, curly hair, which he had tied at the back of his head, rocked as he did so - _how silly that looks_ , Yennefer thought incoherently.  
  
"Do you think that just because I don't quite agree with your ridiculous world and its rules, I'm going on a vendetta? That would be very boring. Do you know what Vilgefortz found so fascinating about your _little Cirilla_?"  
Yennefer felt as if her blood was freezing.  
"You don't believe that Ciri is the key to the conjunction of the spheres," she replied with more calm in her voice than she felt. Whether this was possible or not, the vampire seemed to know exactly what her most significant weakness was. Her only one, Yennefer corrected herself. A weakness she had obviously never learned to control. _Oh, Ciri. Are you giving me trouble again, child?_

  


"Don't you believe?" Anies replied, still smiling. "Honestly, I don't know. But that's no reason not to have a little fun, don't you think? Call it revenge if you want to so badly. After all, you have to admit what she did to me was _very_ naughty."  
"I _admit_ that what she did was very well deserved," Yennefer replied with a hint of spitefulness that she could not prevent.  
"You think so?" he asked softly. "Although I turned against the man who could have given you a position you deserved? And against the man who hurt you so much? Have these two not deserved it just as much, Yennefer? Answer me that."  
Yennefer sighed, perhaps a touch too theatrical, before answering. "You realize what position Ciri will one day occupy? She is the rightful heir to the throne, and so, sooner or later, I shall undoubtedly have this status you speak of. Until then, there is certainly no reason for me to be disloyal to the Emperor."  
  
"Not even if he is the lover of your former companion?" the vampire reiterated.  
Yennefer did not move a muscle when she answered.  
"He is not his lover. He is his future consort. My former relationship is of no concern here. So, if it's about getting me on your side, if you think I'm going against them - or against Ciri - then you're dumber than you look. Even your abilities in thought manipulation or whatever it is that you can do will not help you much. Not with me, anyway."  
She was bluffing about that, but she was good at it. Still, Yennefer hoped the vampire didn't see through her little scheme. She forced herself to an extreme inner calmness. That wasn't really that difficult. Decades of political intrigue, cold calculation, and hard facade lay behind her. And what she had to do to achieve all this, even this vampire could not guess. From her blood, he would certainly not know whether she was agitated, whether his threats caught on. Not by her blood.  
  
"Oh, _Yennefer,_ " repeated the vampire, and there was that little, barely perceptible gesture again. This time she was sure what it meant. Superiority.  
"You are just the little fish on the hook. Bait, and nothing more."  
Again, Yennefer threw a glance out the window; she was greeted once more with nothing but darkness. Ciri would look for her, that much was certain. Ciri would not give up until she found her and would therefore run right into his trap - she would take the bait even if she knew exactly what to expect.  
And Geralt? He would hardly hesitate either. Whether out of a sense of connection - probably more to Ciri than to her - or out of a strange sense of guilt, the witcher would come, just as he had always come. Both were stupid in their own way, Yennefer found, not without a touch of arrogance. Not for the first time, their stupidity would be dangerous.  
"What do you seek to find out there?" Anies suddenly asked. "Do you think they are coming to your rescue?"  
The sorceress turned to him, outwardly calm, but she could not prevent with a little extra heartbeat. "You realize that's exactly what will happen," she replied, "Ciri will come, and she will not be alone. Do you really think she can't hurt you once more? Are you so pretentious, vampire?"  
  
Another smile with teeth.  
"I had a lot of time to deal with these thoughts, sorceress," he replied, emphasizing the last word as disparagingly as she had before. "So, don't think I'm just being presumptuous. I know what's coming. And I'm prepared for it… the question is, are your friends?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Point of no return".


	29. War is the father of man

**\- 28 -**

**War is the father of man**

For some, rumors were almost a currency in this place. In any case, they were the grease in a big, well-oiled machine. In this respect, the palace was hardly different from a city, and truly acted as a small town in and of itself. Information first circulated in the groups where it was created and then spread from top to bottom, sometimes, the other way around. What happened in the throne room that afternoon was usually one of those events events of which there was rarely any information. Even rumors of such gatherings were few and far between and would usually be taken care of. At best, such a meeting generated a glow of conversation that quickly died away. Perhaps, Adan thought, this was even the category of gathering where the "death" of information was sometimes taken literally. Only not today.  
  
Adan was positioned behind the throne, flanked by two soldiers from the Impera Brigade. More of them were in the room - silent, dressed in heavily armed units that boasted an entirely different elite from those present in the room. That Adan stood between them directly behind the Emperor, also armed and with his swords on his back, must not only have seemed strange to the attendees but was also seen as direct provocation. This was perhaps one of the reasons why Emhyr had decided so.  
  
Adan had preferred to pull the hood up over his face. This enabled him to observe the audience inconspicuously without them noticing his gaze. Furthermore, he was strangely uncomfortable at the thought that this bunch of magicians and sorceresses wuld remember him. A certain paranoia was probably part of the experiments he had been subjected to. He preferred not to think about it too much, and he had never investigated what exactly had been done or why. If he did, he would have to remember, and sometimes he felt that remembering came very close to the point where some of the others had gone crazy. That was nonsensical in a way, he knew that not any witcher had survived the mutations and gone unscathed. It did not mean that he was or would become crazy. But the cold feeling that sometimes crept up his back was not always easy to ignore. He felt it even now when he looked at the meeting in front of him.  
  
A dozen mages and sorceresses were a reason for discomfort. There they sat, behind hastily set up tables at the sides of the room, where generally nobody but the Emperor sat. That he had chosen the throne room was apparently symbolic. It was the place where both audiences and trials took place: occasions for intercessions as well as for condemnations. That he did not force them to stand in front of him, bow, or even kneel was another gesture, as was the possibly excessive number of soldiers in the room. However, the feline overestimated the symbolic value in this case, for Emhyr was in fact not willing to carelessly jeopardize the fragile relationship with the magical practitioners by forcing them all to kneel before him. This was indeed not in his power, at least not yet.  
  
Adan might have simply considered the assembled guests to be an exquisite selection of incredibly powerful sorcerers. But he could not guess what power they held in their hands. None of them were outstanding practitioners; for example, no one had earned merit in battle. A handful of them were indeed advisors to royalty, even that did not mean at all that they possessed particularly excellent magical powers. The sorcerer’s real power lay in their political foresight, and that was often their true menace. The participants, each in their own way, held strategically essential positions. Some of them were ambassadors or advisors to the embassies, such as Anya Ravenna, who basically maintained the Nilfgaardian embassy in Novigrad. She had been more than nervous the first time she met the Emperor, and back then, it had only been conversations via the flickering image of a megascope. To Adan, the woman seemed to be making a special effort not to fall out of her chair. The first time he saw her, he had thought her nervousness was suspicious; she behaved not unlike a suspect who knew they would not withstand interrogation. But the truth was much more mundane and clearly recognizable by her smell: the woman almost died in awe in the face of the Emperor.  
  
As for the others, an almost equal number of men and women - with a small male surplus, probably since there were more academies in Nilfgaard - they gave the feline mixed feelings. Most of them understood to keep their feelings to themselves quite well. Especially since his appearance, even if he kept in the background, undoubtedly pointed to a witcher. As far as he knew, Ravenna was young, barely one and a half years in her position. Most of the others were much more in control of themselves. It was hardly possible to tell what feelings they had towards the Emperor. Rather, Adan himself did not feel comfortable with such a number of mages in the room. Maybe it was paranoia to think that one of them was a conspirator who would dare to make an attempt on the Emperor’s life. But it was one of the reasons why the hastily scheduled meeting was being held then. Something lay clearly recognizable in the room, and for that, one didn't need to know anything about magic or be a witcher: a certain impatience and curiosity.  
  
All eyes were on Emhyr, who sat almost nonchalantly on his throne, regardless of the full regalia with which he had equipped himself. This even included the crown, that he almost never wore, even in the presence of other kings and queens. Perhaps precisely not then: he felt it unnecessary to emphasize his status through external symbols. What and who he was needed no explanation… besides, the thing was bloody massive. Someone - his own father, preferably, or his father before him - had felt the need to have the crown made of platinum. The metal had finite resources, was difficult to obtain, and therefore was extremely valuable. So, it was very well suited as a material for a sign of power. However, the crown was very ugly and heavy, causing headaches after a short time. If anything was symbolic, it was the fact that he wore the crown while sitting in his slightly elevated throne, with a dozen magicians below him. It usually forced him to sit very upright if he did not want to experience a taught and aching neck. However, for this meeting, he refused the crown's heavy dominance and schooled his calm and relaxed expression under the dreadful weight of the headpiece. It was all a part of the game, just like when he had chosen to address the people present.

  


"I hope this short notice gathering did not cause any of you inconvenience," he began.  
His sonorous and expressive voice did not have to be loud to reach the last corner of the room. Nor did he have to conceal the fact that he did not care if he was causing them any inconvenience. "I won't keep you all long. As we all know, I too have better things to do this week." He let these words work on them, forcing them to give a smile or at least a consenting nod. "Neither do I want to bore you with why this meeting has to take place exactly now," he continued, letting them know that although the matter was apparently somewhat urgent and they should all play a part somehow, they did not need to know everything. "Therefore, I will be brief… I have a desire to form a new flock."  
The effect of those words was interesting; some mages sat upright, their bodies tense, with questioning and irritaed gazes, otheres seemed confues. One of the older sorcerers, a gray-haired, almost exaggeratedly elegantly dressed seemed to feel called to speak. "A flock, Your Imperial Majesty? There has been no such thing since..."  
"Centuries, I know," Emhyr chillingly interrupted the man.  
"Two hundred and fifty years approximately," the older mage could not resist adding. Emhyr raised his brows in amusement.  
"I am surprised that you think you know this so well. I realize that sorcerers live very long, but this long?"  
  
Again, these words had the desired effect; soft, polite laughter could be heard through the room. The respondent preferred not to reply while Emhyr's gaze lingered on him for a moment. Although Adan couldn't see it behind him, he felt called to keep a closer eye on the mage.  
"I am aware that the flock is something that for some of you may belong to the realm of legends. Nevertheless, I assure you that this union of enchanters has already existed, bringing together women and men from all academies of Nilfgaard. The empire was undoubtedly smaller then than it is today, but it was already a serious entity. The flock was one of the first attempts to unite the realm and help it to become even more powerful."  
Now at the latest, it was clear to everyone what this meant: a union of selected sorcerers under the Emperor's rule. In the end, this meant more than just swearing allegiance to him. In the past, there had been twice larger associations of magicians: the brotherhood and the lodge. Only the brotherhood had united sorceresses and sorcerers in greater interest, while the lodge had concentrated exclusively on women.  
  
The brotherhood had already existed for centuries and posessed a far greater influence; it had laid down rules and regularities for the magicians that were still valid - in the end, it had not been smashed long enough for unscrupulousness and irrationality to spread among the mages. At the same time, the lack of leadership of the remaining sorcerers was evident although there were attempts to introduce some order through smaller groups. While the brotherhood had only been active in the northern regions, there had been similar attempts to unite sorcerers in Nilfgaard - with much less success. The flock had been one of these attempts, and of all of them still the one with the most prospects of establishing itself for a longer period. In the end, this had also turned out to be a fallacy.  
  
A sorceress, sitting at the farthest table from the Emperor, raised her voice.  
"The goal of the flock was an organized simplification of communication via central points in the empire," she said. Emhyr gave her a barely perceptible nod of encouragement. "Our current capabilities for this are quite effective, and your proposal, Your Majesty, would certainly increase efficiency. But it would have been enough to present us with this idea after the wedding. Therefore..." She paused briefly, glancing at Emhyr to see if she still had permission to continue speaking, granted.  
"Therefore, it can probably be assumed that the flock will not only extend to Nilfgaard."  
Now all eyes were on the sorceress, but she was much more composed than Anya Ravenna and showed no signs of nervousness.  
"Quite right," Emhyr replied curtly.  
That it was now Ravenna, of all people, who answered was surprising. "And probably not only the regions which already... well..." - an uncertain clearing of the throat - "as good as belong to Nilfgaard?"  
"Also correct."  
Another mage bent over, leaning heavily on the table in front of him, saying, "This means winning such strategically important positions as the signal towers of Cidaris, for instance."  
"That's already in the works," Emhyr replied calmly, and pieces of the puzzle came together for Adan behind him. He had no idea that even Geralt had wondered half a year ago why Emhyr had concentrated his efforts on the relatively small Kingdom of Cidaris. He had never explained himself in this regard, and of course Adan - despite his position as the King's advisor at the time - had never known exactly what kind of negotiations the Emperor had come to Cidaris for. Most of this had already been planned for a long time, far from the hastily conceived idea that Adan had first believed in. The timing was certainly not what he had originally intended but Emhyr was just proving his foresight and quick thinking.  
  
The announcement had hit the meeting like a small bomb and Adan found it astonishing that Emhyr allowed the quiet murmuring that began to rise to continue for a while without commenting on or stopping it. Adan understood so much about it all; that Emhyr was planning a union of sorcerers not only from Nilfgaard but also from the northern regions - under, reasonably, the control of Nilfgaard, which was expanding further and further north anyway. They were all supposed to form a network, which - probably only one of their purposes - simplified communication among each other and thus greatly expanded the Emperor's information channels. And of course, not only that: they would basically be like chess pieces that he could move around the country at will. At the same time, they would provide some magical protection for the areas in question, thus increasing their dependence on Nilfgaard. It would unite what remained of the former brotherhood in the north and offer the Nilfgaard magicians an organization that they could control and form under their influence. A clever move, considering how angry some of them must have been about his preference for the sorceresses of Aretusa. In contrast to permanent army occupation, the mages would increase and establish Nilfgaard's influence in a superficially peaceful way. They would form a unit that did not currently exist, and yet at the same time, be dependent on it. _That is probably called killing two birds with one stone,_ Adan thought.

  


Suddenly Emhyr stood up. All magicians felt called not only to stop the murmuring immediately but to rise as well.  
"I have reason to believe that the flock will not only earn merit for the empire," he said. "But also, that it would be better to establish it sooner rather than later."  
He followed his words with an artificial pause so that everyone had enough time to ask themselves what exactly he meant by this. "I expect all of you to make suggestions and plans as to exactly how this flock could organize itself. Refer to the original association if it seems helpful… I expect a report within a week at the latest - with as detailed a description as reasonably possible so that the matter can be started as soon as possible as well." Again, he paused for a moment and gave the group in front of him a long, probing look. "Surely some of you are wondering why I chose you, of all people, to carry out this… _wish_.“ He made it clear that this was no order that he couldn’t pronounce any other way without risking a direct affront.  
"Your current positions are favorable to the project, that much everyone should have noticed," Emhyr continued. "One could assume that you will, therefore, not only have a planning function in this matter."  
  
After this was said, he granted the assembled crowd a slight nod, told Adan to follow him with a wave of his hand, and left the throne room.  
Outside the door, he impatiently grabbed the heavy crown from his head, yet laid it very carefully on the pillow, which was kept ready by a servant. The man disappeared, flanked by two guards to bring the crown back to its designated place - and that was preferably not his head, thought Emhyr grimly, while resisting the temptation to massage his temples.  
"Did you do what I asked?" he finally asked Adan quietly. The feline nodded.  
"The protocol clerk..." he started, and at that moment, a tall guy in the typical clothes of a Nilfgaardian official came rushing down the corridor, carrying a pile of parchments in his hands. He bowed to the Emperor with perfect form and apologized wordily for being late. Emhyr merely dismissed him with a gesture, and the man disappeared into the throne room.  
"The official makes sure that the sorcerers are kept busy in there for at least two hours," Adan continued. "The rumor of an unannounced gathering of high-ranking sorcerers has spread like wildfire throughout the palace. Frankly, intelligence is furious. First, because they knew nothing about it, and second, because such a meeting must not be counterproductive to rumors."  
  
They had set themselves in motion, followed by the usual stoic soldiers in tow, which kept a discreet distance. Nevertheless, Adan spoke very quietly.  
"Normally, they would be right," Emhyr replied just as quietly, with an almost imperceptible amused undertone. "After all, in the end, it would be them I would blame. I guess I'll have to reprimand them."  
"You seem to think this is a fun game, but I still think it's a game with fire," Adan returned, almost indignantly. Emhyr gave him a brief side glance.  
"I truly expected that the political dimensions of this matter would interest you," he said.   
"I am not worried about the political dimensions, only about the fact that we are inviting in a dozen magicians without being able to check them all and without knowing if they are in collusion with de Groot."  
"That is precisely why I called them here," Emhyr reminded the feline.  
"I know, and the servants who will take care of them in the next few hours are agents, as requested. Another reason why intelligence is angry - because you didn't explain what exactly the reason is for them to agree to this game of hide-and-seek."  
"They can be angry all they want," Emhyr replied calmly. "As long as they do what they were trained for and do it for the realm to which they have sworn allegiance. They know this, which is why I think your impression of their displeasure is a little exaggerated."  
Adan sighed. "Perhaps. But if de Groot, if he has heard the rumor, really shows himself among them because he is in cahoots with one of them, I would rather be there."  
"He will not leap in the middle of the throne room," said Emhyr.  
"No, that's why they are all being guarded discreetly," Adan returned. "Tomorrow morning, they will all be gone again. And if de Groot is nowhere to be found, then we must assume he is no longer here."  
  
By now, they had reached Emhyr's chambers. Adan suddenly changed his position. He was so fast that Emhyr couldn't even react, and in a heartbeat, he was right in front of the door.  
"What are you doing?" Emhyr asked with a frown.  
"I'm going to stay here tonight," Adan said. "On the floor beneath your bed if I have to, but certainly close by."  
"I beg your pardon."  
The look that grazed Adan was one of an apex predator, yet bounced off the feline as always.  
"No risk," he said. "If de Groot plans anything, it must be done tonight. It cannot have escaped his notice that Geralt is gone, and not only him. Three witchers and a sorceress don't disappear that discreetly, not to mention with your daughter in tow. It didn't even need an additional rumor for that. Of course, he won't suspect what it's about, but he can imagine that his time to act is short. So, either he's really in cahoots with another mage, or he must fear that you're now looking for the support of other sorcerers to get hold of him. In either case he must strike quickly. And as the saying goes: the safety of the Emperor is the highest commandment."  
"That would be a saying that has escaped me so far," Emhyr replied quietly. "But I certainly know a person who would say something of that sort and lay such nonsense upon you."  
"Call it what you will," Adan said stubbornly. "I am staying here."  
"Not in my _bedroom_.“  
"Then, the door stays open."  
In the ensuing staring contest, there were no winners.  
"Do what you must," Emhyr finally spat.  
  
Then he reached past Adan and opened the door - a clear gesture. If that was what Geralt had wanted, fine. He better made sure that he returned safely, so Emhyr could tell him what he thought of it… when he returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Beyond the wall".
> 
> Yes, I was still re-reading "Assassin's apprentice" when I wrote this chapter, I admit it...


	30. The times have changed he has to fight

**\- 29 -**

**The times have changed he has to fight**

_\- Somewhere in Nilfgaard, 2 days to the imperial wedding -_

"Keep behind us," Geralt whispered to the doppler. The silence in the empty entrance hall overgrown with dust and cobwebs almost seemed to indicate that no one was there. He would not be deceived by that. The vampire was playing a game, although not a particularly refined one. He had once successfully prevented anyone from following his tracks because he had cleverly planned his moves. But now he had wanted to be found. The why was not yet clear to Geralt as he carefully walked through the dark hall. Eskel held ot his left, Triss right behind near the broken windows - after all, she did not have the advantage of being able to see in the dark. It was difficult to avoid the occasional shards of glass laying around. In the end, nobody believed that the sound of crunching glass would make a difference. The vampire had expected them; that much was certain. The only question was… where exactly was he?  
  
A soft noise made Geralt stop. Triss halted behind him, not hearing anything although trusting the witcher’s instincts. She kept a spell ready on her lips and almost in her hand. Around the not very trustworthy stairs leading to the higher levels, Lambert and Ciri appeared. Even Frids, who had stayed a little behind the witchers and the sorceress, visibly relaxed at the sight of them.  
"There’s a back entrance," Lambert said without trying to lower his voice. His words echoed uncomfortably loud in the empty room. "It was locked… and Ciri here wouldn’t tell me where she learned to pick locks."  
"At least not from me," muttered Geralt. Then he pointed to the stairs. "Guess we’re going up."  
  
At that moment, several things happened at once: Eskel looked up, shouted, _"Shit!"_  
He drew his silver sword.   
While everyone attempted to penetrate the darkness and look up, several black shadows popped up from the ceiling. Ciri cursed, Geralt and Lambert also drew their swords. Triss made a sudden hand movement, and Frids, who was almost frozen at first, turned around and ran in the direction they had come from. Yet, he stopped at the front door and looked back indecisively. It would have been so easy to disappear and flee now. Although… easy? Not necessarily, given the numerous bloodthirsty figures that had suddenly spread out in the entrance hall.   
The doppler had so far only seen something like this in books - fairy tales that were supposed to scare children. According to the hideous teeth, the creatures - a dozen at least, if not significantly more - showed, they too were vampires, albeit a much more repulsive species than Anies. While the latter resembled a human being altogether, at least in its outer appearance, these beings were simply monsters in Frids' eyes. Disgusting creatures with leathery skin and oddly long arms with hideous, sharp claws jutting from the ends. The sight was reason enough to flee, and the doppler could not fight. Of course, he could have taken the form of a fighter, and he would have known what to do, but at that moment, what he himself was in truth was so close and so clear in him that he did not even consider it. This real ego did not want to fight, did not want to imitate the fight either. It wanted to disappear and have nothing to do with all this. While the silence in the hall suddenly gave way to a shrill sound, almost shrieked in unison the vampires. This was paired with the metallic clinking of blades pulled from sheaths - the doppler realized that he could not escape. _Cling together, swing together,_ he thought not without bitterness.   
  
In fact, there were well over a dozen of them, even if only the witchers could see their patterns clearly - although even they would have preferred a sip of Cat to penetrate the darkness. Almost all of them were garkains - _no big surprise_ , Geralt thought as he changed his stance to one of an attacking position. These were pretty much the lowest vampires there were, the last link of the pecking order. They were disgusting, filthy creatures… and Geralt thought it was only fitting that their superior relative made use of this scum. This accumulation of monstrosities was not in the slightest comparison to what had once happened in Beauclair, led by a far more dangerous opponent. Perhaps the vampire did not have the same means at his disposal. Or maybe he wasn’t important enough. It was pointless to worry about it. There were enough garkains to keep them busy for a while, but little more than that. Geralt didn't have to tell Eskel and Lambert what to do - these weren't unusual monsters, even if they were fast and undoubtedly dangerous. Both witchers had already uncorked and taken their vials of Black Blood, Geralt quickly following suit. These creatures, like all their lower brothers and sisters, put it on to bite their enemies. Their greed for blood was only one of the many differences to higher vampires, many of whom like to distinguish themselves from the lower genera by emphasizing their independence from drunkenness.   
  
As for Ciri... well, she couldn't fall back on witcher's potions, but Geralt knew not to worry much about her. What she had done to Anies back then in the tower more than half a year ago, Geralt had hardly seen and had little memory of. But he had never doubted what she was capable of; he had seen her fight not only once. As tough and repulsive as a garkain might be, Ciri was as good as a witcher as far as Geralt was concerned. Of course - thank goodness - she lacked the mutations. She did not need them as the blood of Lara Dorren, her true origin, flowed through her. Ciri displayed this clearly while sweeping through the vampires like a cyclone formed of chaos. The ugly creatures, however clumsy they looked, were fast. But Ciri was like the light that some clever scholars believed spread faster than anything. Geralt was, even if he didn't seem so, quite an advocate of the sciences but believed above all in what he saw. In this case he saw monsters - and Ciri, who stood in front of a garkain one moment, whistling through the air and through a body with her sword, and in a completely different position in the room the next.   
  
He had little opportunity to admire her murderous elegance. Like the rest of the witchers, he was immediately attacked by the evil creatures, almost jumped on, and soon, he was busy keeping claws and teeth away from his neck. Triss kept herself somewhat in the background; her spells had to work especially precisely because of the darkness and the witchers, who were not allowed to endanger her. Geralt hardly noticed what she was doing behind them, in the blackness of the entrance hall. He occasionally noticed the effect of her efforts when a vampire near him was hit by a flash of light and sent screeching to the ground. He was also busy concentrating on his bodily functions - even though his senses gradually returned, Geralt was still not in full possession of his powers. Stubbornness kept him upright, although his head was still roaring, and the potion had stirred up his bowels again. Whenever he drew his sword to strike, the dizziness returned, though not as bad as before. But all in all, the fights demanded a lot from him, up to the point where he had to force back black spots before his eyes. He relied more on his instincts than on power and strength, and in addition to occasional blackness before his eyes, he had to suppress the thought of whether he was capable of fighting Anies in this condition.

But he still worked - because he had to. He knew what he was fighting for. The garkains might be a diversion or the higher vampire's actual attempt to get rid of them. In the latter case, he would be dumber than Geralt thought. In fact, he suspected that Anies had no idea that Geralt and Ciri would show up with reinforcements. If he had expected more witchers, wouldn't he have gotten much more support? Had he perhaps thought Triss would stay behind with Emhyr for protection? Geralt almost lost himself too much in these thoughts - and the claw that slid into his visual field nearly caught him. Long, leathery fingers with their razor-sharp tips came dangerously close to his face. Still, pure instinct, muscle memory and decades of experience saved him. He swung his sword upwards in precisely the right moment, the beast’s claw hitting the blade with a disgusting metallic sound. He shouldn't have minded the shock, but he felt the vibration penetrate his shoulder uncomfortably, and for a moment he had to change his footing and take up a new position.   
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eskel, his sword raised in perfect defensive posture, giving him a questioning look - and not only that, he moved sideways towards him. At least he tried, but one of the vampires suddenly pushed itself off the ground unexpectedly, as if preparing to fly. He jumped towards the witcher with a tremendous leap and Geralt was soon busy again with the stream of the lower vampires, who left no stone unturned to bite their enemies, wouldn’t stop for anything. And although his mind felt slightly befogged, the longer this went on, his body remembered everything he needed to know. None of the witchers gave the garkains a chance to pounce on them. Let's reserve the poisoned blood for your cousin, Geralt thought fiercely, his sword almost slicing through the sheer never-ending flood of lower vampires. Their number gave them no advantage - but that was only because of the witchers' determination, and probably because of two of their own benefits: they had not only Ciri, but also a sorceress. Garkains were not only particularly nasty creatures; they were strong and able to organize themselves. Each of the wolf school witchers - and probably not only them - had heard the story of the attack on Lan Exeter in 1104. Geralt thought fleetingly, that such stories would be told today about Beauclair, if there were still a new generation of witchers. But Lan Exeter was a very special case: The city had suffered extreme losses, carried out by only three garkains. The townspeople had been defenseless; the guards no help because without silver weapons, it was hardly possible to get hold of these beings. Three garkains had wreaked terrible havoc, leaving a trail of blood and guts - and a clear warning to future witchers not to underestimate them.   
  
They did not, and they were prepared in many ways. Even Ciri, who did not have the advantages of the witchers' mutations or had access to potions - an oil on her sword was possible just like with the witchers, though, this oil was pure poison for the vampires. The air was quickly filled with the stench of blood and rot. The doppler had withdrawn as far as his vision and the lack of light in the room allowed and had huddled behind a once probably decorative column. From time to time, although his heart almost seemed to beat out of his chest, he forced himself to peer around the column and watch the fight. The sorceress remained in the background; from Frids' position, she was only visible as a very faint outline.   
He didn't see what she was doing, but whatever it was, it sometimes produced flashes of light, followed by celestial, shrill shrieks when the vampires were hit. Once or twice, she screamed, _“Down!"_   
The witchers and Ciri would react immediately, throwing themselves to the ground regardless of the fighting before a veritable firestorm of flames swept through the ranks of the upright garkains. The entire entrance hall was already filthy with blood which he doppler strained to avoid. He had read stories about the war and imagined the whole thing as a kind of gruesome slaughter, at the end of which only guts, body parts, and a lot of blood remained. If that was the case, then this came close to a war. But Frids had never been able to imagine all these sounds. He would never have thought that a sword that drove into a body sounded almost exactly like the cleaver of the butcher who cut up a piece of a pig at the market. That a vampire could make sounds like two cats fighting for territory at night. He heard everything very clearly; almost as if all other sounds in the world had disappeared, he could hear every sound, no matter how small. The creaking of leather in motion. The scratching of claws on the stone floor. Accelerated breath, a gasp, a non-human scream. Eventually, it was too much; Frids put his hands on his ears and prayed to all the gods his blessed mother had ever told him to.   
  
It was difficult to say how long the fight lasted. The garkains were tough opponents, especially when they flocked together. Lambert protected Triss as best he could, and after Eskel had reached Geralt, the two fought back to back, just as they had once learned. Ciri continued to sweep through the vampires as if her powers had no limit at all. As though she could recall them endlessly. At some point, one of the vampires, whose number was decreasing despite their initial apparent superiority, managed to jump on Eskel and bring him down. Whether out of carelessness or luck of the vampire, the witcher lost his balance and almost brought Geralt down as well. But even as he fell and the vampire clawed into the shoulders of his armor, Eskel unrolled. The garkain landed on his own back and lost his grip. With a single flowing movement, the witcher was back on his feet and thrust the sword vertically into the vampire. Maybe it was a miracle, maybe it was the witchers' experience, but not one of the vampires managed to land a bite.   
Again, and again claws tried to grab them, and probably every single set of armor would need repairs but what the garkains had ahead of them in number and maybe instinctive will to attack, the witchers made up for with their knowledge of every single weak point of the creatures. When they stood together, they were almost one single sword. An attack formation learned decades ago and never used, three prepared witchers' swords, a whirlwind called Ciri, and the concentrated rage of a sorceress who was more than tired of killing instead of healing: this was the real power, which should not be underestimated in this fight. But the garkains, despite their strength, were lowly monsters, incapable of intelligent organization or communication. Driven only by bloodlust and the call of a master who now did not even care about them and left them to their fate, they were not able to realize that the witchers were soon superior to them.   
  
More than a dozen vampires against only a handful of fighters: if it had only been about the number, the vampires would have made short work of them in no time. Indeed, it was not easy, it would be a mistake to think that each fight was, and they knew that. Frids behind his column, with all his fear, failed in recognizing the elegance within it all. For him, all this was only carnage… unknowing that not a single stroke of swords was unnecessary, not a single movement superfluous. Even with vampires, the witchers could dance, an ancient and undoubtedly bloody dance. Still, the blood was almost entirely at the expense of the vampires.   
At some point, the noise subsided alongside the disgusting smacking of torn flesh. Eventually, the floor was littered with bodies. Still, the doppler preferred to concentrate his gaze on the witchers, Ciri, and the sorceress. They all seemed slightly out of breath and the white-haired one, who always stood out a little, seemed to have trouble with his balance for a moment. But the most crucial thing for Frids was that the fight was over. Somehow, perhaps by some miracle or actual superiority, the witchers had not only survived, but they had also slaughtered all vampires.

  


Geralt had to correct his position for a moment in order not to lose his balance when everything was over. Eskel, who was still standing next to him, didn't say anything; only briefly stretching out his hand to grab Geralt by his upper arm, and let go again as soon as it was clear that he wouldn't fall over. Everyone looked around as if no one could believe that it was over - and that it had happened this way.   
"Anyone hurt?" Geralt asked, although it was almost evident that the fight had cost no one more than a few scratches.   
"Not worth mentioning," Lambert remarked, although he bled from a wound on his thigh. He pointed to it and added, "However, I'm pretty pissed, the repairs’ll be expensive. What's the point of reinforcing the leather anyway, when these critters get through with their claws so easily?"   
Eskel snorted. "Shall I put a nice bandage on it so you can show off?"   
Lambert slapped Eskel on the upper arm, and Triss, who had come closer, sighed.   
"It's always fun and games for you, isn't it?"   
For a moment, the two witchers looked almost guilty.   
  
In the meantime, Frids had also ventured out of his hiding place. "I... I have a torch," he said incoherently, and indeed he had pulled one out of his robe. He had been carrying it around with him the whole time, had put it in the palace almost by instinct before they had left.   
"Not stupid at all," Ciri noticed, took it from his hand, and held it out to Geralt. "Some of us could actually use some light, and the vampire knows we're here anyway."   
Geralt nodded and lit the torch with a small Igni thrust, before he returned it to Ciri.   
"I think it's time to make him realize that he underestimated who he was messing with," he then said. Eskel nodded.   
"You think he didn't expect you to come with support?" he asked, pointing to the chaos of dead vampires they had all left behind.   
"I think he's counting on Ciri because he's not wrong in thinking she's taking the matter with Yen personally," Geralt replied, "And he knows I'm coming, of course. But how could he know that more witchers are coming? Or that Triss would not stay in the palace for protection?"   
"If that's true, he will be in for a surprise," Ciri said grimly.   
"Exactly… and I’m ready to give it to him," Geralt replied in the same tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Wizard's crown".


	31. Away from light straight to the dark

**\- 30 -**

**Away from light straight to the dark**

Geralt walked up the stairs in the certainty that no more surprises would await, and he was right. This bunch of lower vampires seemed to be all Anies had prepared. Had Geralt and Ciri really come alone... well, it was pointless to think about it now. Still, it was an understatement to say that the garkains would have become dangerous for them. The torch in Ciri's hand illuminated enough of the darkness so that she, Triss, and the doppler did not have to stumble around wholly disoriented. Frids continued to stay in the background as the sight of the witchers with their dark protruding veins in their faces made him almost more nervous than he already was. The moment when he took the form of one of them had not been enough to give him an understanding of what it truly meant to be a witcher, but myths and legends had not passed him by. Most of it was probably stupid folk belief, superstition even. Still, three fully equipped witchers, bloodstained and with those terrifying faces... it was not difficult to imagine why their kind was not welcome in most places.  
  
A long corridor awaited them at the top of the stairs. It was almost a miracle that the steps were still intact, thought Triss as she looked back. On the way up, she automatically embraced the banister of the staircase. Although, it was not only dusty and covered with cobwebs, it seemed anything but safe to her. In the hallway of the upper floor of the abandoned mansion, things looked no different, all dust, dirt, shards at both ends of the corridor, where windows were little more than dark holes in the walls. The cold wind of autumn blew unhindered through the hall where Ciri's torch threw in just enough light to reveal stains on the walls showing spaces where paintings were once hung. Several doors were visible on the corridor walls, almost all of them half unhinged or destroyed. It was not difficult to imagine that the former beauty of the place, still fleetingly visible in the architecture and in remnants of precious tapestries on the wall, had at some point attracted thieves. Whatever had happened to this place? It had not only been abandoned. It had been ruined, plundered, and forgotten. Did the old walls hold a symbolic power for the vampire? Triss was no expert in these matters, and she still had no idea what he wanted exactly. However, it wasn't hard to imagine that it had something to do with Ciri. Revenge seemed a strangely antiquated motive for a being that would outlive them all - even Ciri, whose share of elven blood certainly didn't guarantee her immortality. The sorceress found the attempt to apply logical thinking almost strange in this case. Still, this much was clear: the vampire had to fear Ciri's powers, despite all that his nature gave him. He was not the only one and not the first.  
  
Geralt pointed to a door at the left end of the hallway, the only one that was still reasonably intact and clearly closed.  
"He is there. Waiting for us. Well, at least for Ciri and me. Stay in the background until we know what he is up to."  
If he had expected protest - at least from Lambert - the surprise came when nobody attempted to contradict him. Especially not Lambert, although he had already fought the vampire. His own sense of vengeance and justice was usually more substantial than his desire to logically think through a plan. He too only nodded, although the grip of his hand on the hilt of his sword might have become a bit tighter. Eskel looked a bit skeptical, but a glance at his familiar face told Geralt that he held no objections - and would follow him almost unconditionally; a circumstance that didn't exactly make Geralt's decisions any easier.  
He gestured to the doppler to come closer. Frids did so, albeit hesitantly.  
"Transform yourself into Yennefer," Geralt said firmly.  
The doppler blinked nervously. "You promised not to use me as a means of exchange."  
"I don't intend to," Geralt replied. His voice and especially his eyes, those strange eyes, were almost hypnotic. No, that was exaggerated, Frids thought. It was merely an extraordinary power of persuasion that emanated from the witcher. Almost inexplicable, but unusually compelling.  
"However, you will be a decoy. I'm sorry."  
  
Unwillingly, Frids took a step backward, but behind him now stood one of the other witchers, as he realized with a quick look back. _Cling together, swing together_ , he thought again. Amazing how differently the meaning of this little proverb could be interpreted.  
"What are you up to?" Triss asked. The thought of using the doppler as a copy of Yennefer, for whatever purpose, was not appealing to her.  
Geralt did not look at her, continuing to stare only at Frids.  
"I'll give him the surprise he deserves," he replied somewhat cryptically. "Listen," he said suddenly and turned to the others. "I know it's a lot to ask, but..."  
"Shut up," Ciri interrupted him rudely, "This is not only about you; this asshole threatens everything important to me. And, as Papa would say: ‘a threat is only a threat as long as you take care of it personally’."  
She succeeded in such an impeccable imitation of Emhyr's voice, which she underlined with a typical gesture that Geralt had to smile involuntarily.  
"He would say that," he confirmed gently.  
"But he wouldn't say asshole," mumbled Lambert, and this surprisingly produced one of Triss’ rare giggles.  
  
"What am I supposed to do?" asked the doppler nervously, after the tension had visibly eased - only not really with him.  
"Yennefer," Geralt reminded him briefly. "And then just play along."  
So Frids did what the witcher wanted and once again became the black-haired sorceress. Perfect, from the smallest curl of hair, the not quite straight nose... to the smell of lilac and gooseberries, Geralt thought, and although this should not surprise him, it did.  
"Hold back," he reminded the others again. He seemed perfectly calm, too calm for Triss' taste. She knew that no nervousness would be expected from the witchers, yet she would have preferred to know what Geralt was up to. But in the end, she had no more left than to prepare herself for the unknown. For a vampire, who probably only felt her spells as a nuisance, no more.  
  
Geralt grasped the Yennefer imitation on her arm, just a light touch, but for a moment, the doppler looked at the witcher in surprise.  
"What?" Geralt mumbled under his breath.  
Frids shook his head. "Nothing," he whispered as if the witcher's lowered voice had been an imperative. "Just... feelings."  
Feelings that this touch triggered in what the doppler knew from Yennefer at that moment. Geralt could imagine this, his understanding of the nature of the doppler reached so far. However, he did not want to know anything about it and had no interest in learning how Yennefer truly felt about him - he already had enough problems without feeling more guilt.  
In the meantime, they had reached the locked door.  
"Play along," he repeated. The doppler nodded slightly. His nervousness was palpable, so the witcher looked at him sternly. "And calm down. The vampire's senses are much stronger than mine, and I can smell your fear quite clearly."  
"How can I?" muttered Frids with desperation in his voice. He pointed to the door. The fact that he spoke in Yennefer's voice, which Geralt knew was in the vampire's power, whatever that meant precisely, didn't make things any easier.  
"I don't know," Geralt honestly admitted. "But if I must, I'll calm you down with a sign. You have enough witchers saved now to know what it means." He paused for a moment, ran his gloved hand over his forehead, behind which it throbbed again more strongly than before. "You are Yennefer. _Right now,_ you are Yennefer. She can control her feelings; she always has. Would she let the vampire know she was afraid?"  
  
Frids had to admit that she wouldn't. He knew enough about the sorceress now, almost so much that he felt he was about to burst. If he concentrated, he could... and there it was. It was more than just the ability not to feel fear. She had the power to control her body functions - more magic than instinct, and so simple, so easy now that he accessed it. Heartbeat, blood pressure, breathing rate. It was all there, and he knew how it worked. Geralt almost smiled as he watched the imitation of his former lover.  
"Much better," he said softly, and when the violet eyes looked at him, he lowered his gaze and looked to the door. Without another word, he pushed the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titel is a line from "Somewhere far beyond".


	32. And time? Time is standing still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get yourself in the right mood for the big boss fight. Here's the [song](https://open.spotify.com/track/4EGyA7tVsQyRRPfvMbc71P?si=NW-6nP98RXGDz5C3l5Ctzg) for this one. 
> 
> Thanks to [@jawanaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jawanaka/pseuds/Jawanaka) for the last push I needed for Ciri in this chapter. She will be surprised because it was just a very short conversation, but I will keep calling her the Ciri expert and go check out her fic. ;)
> 
> For the record, my head canon includes the B&W ending with Geralt in jail (which is also briefly mentioned in [I walk the fire, I feed the flame](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765831).
> 
> Chapter title is a line from "Fast to madness".

**\- 31 -**

**And time? Time is standing still**

Geralt pushed open the door, sword in hand, and took a step inside, pulling the doppler with him. So, it happened that, standing at the window of an empty, dusty, and abandoned room, the sorceress of Vengerberg suddenly found herself facing her exact copy. Next to her stood Anies, the vampire of whom Geralt had only very hazy memories - not good ones. He hardly remembered this flawless face framed by luxurious curls, the elegant and strangely old-fashioned clothing. Geralt recalled a thing Regis once told him: that some vampires found it harder than others to deal with the world's constant changes. _"They do not grasp time like ordinary people; decades mean nothing to them,"_ he had said. This one looked so incredibly young, even though he was probably several centuries old. It was hard to imagine that someone like him was a follower of dusty myths and ancient traditions. Yet here he stood, the conductor of a ridiculous game for which he alone knew the rules.  
  
The vampire squinted his eyes when Geralt appeared on the doorstep with the Yennefer copy. Was this a sign of surprise? It was hard to tell. He looked at the Yennefer standing next to him, then back to the one at the door. Finally, he twisted his mouth into a kind of imitation of a grin showing his fangs.  
"Funny," he said, with a surprisingly pleasant voice that Geralt was not fooled by. The vampire had succeeded in performing his repulsive mind tricks on him. Never again. The thought was like an inner oath, yet he didn't even know if he would be able to keep it.  
"Yes, really funny," Geralt replied, "Considering that you only have the doppler, and I have the sorceress, who probably has enough power to get rid of you once and for all."  
Frids had to pull himself together to not flinch. Had to force himself to not give the witcher a surprised look, that would have been treacherous.  
The vampire laughed out loud, sounding anything but pleasant. Nevertheless, Geralt did not miss that the vampire taking a quick look at the Yennefer at the window. She proved her sense for quick thinking and drew her mouth to a scornful grin.  
"Well, fooled you, huh?" Words and tone of voice were so unusual for the sorceress that Geralt could only admire her presence of mind at that moment. And even Frids played along because at that moment, everything seemed so simple.  
"A pretty good copy, although I would have taken a little more trouble with the hair," the doppler said in a loud, clear voice, hitting Yennefer's cool and slightly arrogant tone perfectly.  
  
"Nonsense," Anies replied sharply. "Is this your idea of a joke, witcher? Do you think it is appropriate given your situation?"  
"Oh, and what _situation_ would that be?" Geralt asked, moving the sword back and forth loosely but surely in his hand. An apparent gesture, which did not escape the vampire.  
Anies pursed his lips, bowing his head while he looked at Geralt disparagingly.  
"Well, for one thing, there is the sorceress," he replied. "I think you overestimate her power. On the other hand, it doesn't really matter which of the two is the real Yennefer von Vengerberg. Don't you realize that it is in my power to destroy them both? I won't let a witcher stand in my way."  
He expressed all this with extreme composure, with the ultimate certainty that he meant what he said. Or, Geralt thought, that he at least believed it - he thought he was so superior that megalomania didn't even describe it adequately.  
"You are forgetting something," a voice suddenly resounded behind Geralt. Ciri had obviously decided to no longer follow his instructions to stay in the background. She pushed herself past Geralt and took a few steps towards the vampire, Zirael sitting loosely in her right hand similar to how Geralt held his own sword. This almost exaggerated nonchalance was only meant to emphasize that a single, firm grip would be enough to make the sword the tool for what it had been created for.  
"How could I forget _you_?“ scoffed the vampire. "Lara Dorren's blood. It's almost like one can smell it."  
The idea was eerie, and Geralt wondered for a moment if Anies had felt all the time that he hadn't come alone. He had surely expected Ciri. Maybe he had hoped for her out of pure revenge. But when he had appeared alone on the doorstep, hadn't the vampire thought for a moment that she wasn't with him?  
"I wonder," Ciri continued, "how quickly you have recovered. Was I not clear enough the last time? As far as I remember, in the end, you were missing a few body parts. Must have hurt."  
In fact, it was quite astonishing that after half a year, the vampire stood before them wholly unharmed and apparently in full strength. Ciri had never spoken about precisely what had happened back then, at least not to Geralt. Emhyr had only seen a small part of it. Lambert, who had also tried to fend off the vampire, had described Ciri's attacks in his cynical words as a kind of bloody battlefield. But even if she had cut him in half - and Geralt doubted very much that this had really been the case - it wouldn't have killed him. The attacks had been furious, carried out in a hurry. In the end, it might not have been too serious injuries. What were serious injuries for higher vampires anyway? "It was undoubtedly unpleasant, but I wonder if you will grow an arm if I tear it off?"  
  
The words of the vampire caused a cold shiver on the back of the doppler, who was still standing next to Geralt in the shape of the sorceress, wondering what to do. What was expected of him? Whether the vampire had figured out the little game of hide-and-seek or not, Frids asked himself if he had the nerve to test the sorceress's abilities if necessary. Would they have a chance if he dared? Ciri did not answer the vampire's outrageous question, at least not with words. She answered in another way: a flash of light, so bright in the darkness of the room, which the torch thrown on the floor could only insufficiently illuminate. Where she had stood a moment ago, she was no more, now standing directly before Anies, the sword at his throat. Geralt gripped his own sword more firmly - the time for looseness was over. Behind him, the other witchers entered the room. It was not to be seen in the diffuse light if the vampire was surprised about her presence. At first, he did not react at all. Geralt made a hand movement, and Yennefer, the real Yennefer, who had been almost frozen for a moment, approached him.  
"Careful," she whispered. "He wants Ciri."  
The vampire's mouth widened to another disgusting grin. The sorceress could not speak so softly that he did not hear it.  
  
"He doesn't _want_ her," he said. "He already has her."  
The sword at his throat did not seem to impress him in the least - and why should it? Geralt remembered Regis' story of the time when his head had been cut off. Legends made peasants believe that you could kill a vampire like that. But these were just legends. There were good reasons why even witchers were afraid to take on higher vampires. Such a reason stood before them: without scruples, without fear, even in this seemingly human form, a being they should all better fear, not the other way around.  
  
And Ciri? _She underestimates him_ , Geralt suddenly thought. That she had been able to hurt him once had given her impetus. She should have learnt her lesson many years ago, but what she was stood in her way. He recognized that now. Her heritage gave her special powers, but despite all that, she was human. Compared to the witchers and sorceresses, incredibly young, a leaf in the wind. Compared to the vampire, only a speck of dust. Like every human, she was not infallible and not immune to emotions - her other heritage. The pride of her father. An admirable quality for someone who could look back on a life's work, but Ciri was still too close to haughtiness.

When the vampire extended his claws, she saw it a moment too late, and Zirael landed in a corner of the room, clinking, cracking against a wall; lightning fast so that nobody could process the pace - especially not Ciri. The next moment, his hand wrapped around her neck, sharp claws a hideous imitation of her gesture with the sword. Yennefer made a sound, not unlike a hiss, like an animal whose pack is threatened. The sorceress had always considered Ciri as her daughter. Her attachment to Ciri was probably one of the circumstances that brought her mistrust from the Emperor - of which she was aware. In her eyes, it was his own fault. He underestimated how much of herself was to be found in Ciri. The consanguinity didn't matter at all. As far as this was concerned, Ciri was _her_ child, the child she had never been allowed to have. And yet Yennefer held back the anger she felt because the vampire threatened Ciri. She was old enough to control herself. _Think, Yenna_. Feverishly, she turned around, glanced past Geralt and the witchers. Her instinct had not deceived her. Triss was there, too. Carefully and without letting the vampire and Ciri out of her sight, she took a step back, and then another. Triss couldn't stand the tension anymore and had entered the room behind Lambert, just in time to see that Ciri lost her supposed advantage by the blade on the vampire's neck. A quick glance through the room told her that they all had few alternatives left. The bare walls and the peeling of tapestry did not hide the fact that it was once an ordinary bedroom - on one wall the remains of a fireplace were visible. Three witchers, two sorceresses, Ciri, the doppler, and the vampire - the place was almost overcrowded. Triss needed space for her magic. As for Yen, she was not so sure. The other sorceress was unscrupulous when necessary. She might even risk hurting someone if she could only succeed in harming the vampire. Collateral damage, nothing more - in fact, Yennefer thought about it at that moment.  
  
She slowly moved closer to Triss. Everyone in the room moved incredibly slow now, always keeping the vampire in sight; but no one stood still. Frids, now almost trembling with fear even though he was still maintaining the sorceress' shape, did not understand. He realized very well that no one else was going into shock - unlike him, they were all professionals. But shouldn't they have stood still and waited, now that the woman was in the power of the vampire? The daughter of the Emperor? All movements were slow, careful; no one moved in the direction of the vampire. It was as if everyone in the room took up a predetermined position, like in a game of chess. It was strange and fascinating at the same time. Only Ciri was utterly calm. Her eyes had a peculiar sparkle in them, but her face betrayed nothing. She remained unimpressed by the claws aound her neck, no less sharp than her sword an which could become a deadly weapon just as fast, perhaps even faster.  
  
"Look around," Geralt said. He stood closest to the vampire but kept enough distance. Like the other witchers, he had taken up an attack position - like a predator just before they leap, thought Frids fleetingly. "What do you think your chances are?"  
Again, the fangs flashed as the vampire's mouth twisted into a smile that had nothing friendly about it.  
"You are familiar with the term _bargaining chip_ , witcher?" Geralt tilted his head and looked at the vampire with a feigned expression of surprise.  
"You think we'll let you go, just like that? Because of _her_?“  
He lifted his sword to gesture at Ciri. The corners of her mouth lifted, very slightly, to suggest a reasonable smile. Geralt knew what that meant. _Yes_ , he thought, _you are right. He taught me that._ And it seemed Emhyr had taught him even more because, for once, his face was completely expressionless.  
"I don't believe it; I know it," Anies replied. "I know very well what she means to some of you. Why do you think the dirty doppler should take the shape of the sorceress in the first place?"  
  
Frids pulled a face - and regretted it immediately. The vampire grinned because now he knew exactly which one was the real Yennefer. But the doppler had not been able to restrain himself. He knew what Anies had alluded to. After the vampire had contacted him again, after he had thought he had already forgotten him, Anies immediately demanded that he become the sorceress. He had known that Frids could also call up memories at that moment. It was a complicated process, not always wholly flawless, and the doppler hadn't known what to expect when he took the shape of the sorceress. It had not been entirely smooth.  
Becoming a sorceress had felt like pulling on a second skin that was much too tight. He had almost felt like he was suffocating, it had never been like that before. But he had also never felt such power so superior to his own that his consciuosness had retreated into the furthest corner, as if it was afraid. There had been so many feelings, and so many of them suppressed, pushed away, hidden in deep corners. But this one had always been present: that the sorceress loved the girl like a daughter. The vampire had wanted to know this: who were the sorceress' friends, who were her enemies. Whom she loved, whom she desired. Frids had obeyed and revealed what he had experienced in her form. Therefore, it was no secret to the vampire that the sorceress held a more than great affection for Ciri. He wondered why he had not wanted Frids to simply take over Ciri's form. Did he believe that it was not possible to achieve whatever he wanted with her copy? It was more likely that in the end, it was revenge he was after. Perhaps even complete destruction, Frids thought, not without horror. For in the shape of Yennefer, he had a certain idea of what might happen if the vampire would harm Ciri.  
  
"We are not negotiating with you," Geralt said calmly. "You will let her go, one way or another. You cannot kill her because obviously, you need her. You wouldn't have gone to all this effort if it wasn't about Ciri in the end."  
"How clairvoyant of you, witcher," the vampire sneered in reply.  
Geralt made a derogatory gesture. "You're not the first."  
Anies squeezed his eyes together and visibly strengthened the grip on Ciri's neck. His sharp claws ran over her skin, carving it consciously. Tiny drops of blood could be seen, running seemingly endlessly slowly across the claws. Again, a sound from Yennefer could be heard. Geralt did not look at her.  
"You're probably right that I want the same thing as everyone else before me. And you are surely aware that I won't be the last if Lara Dorren's heir walks on this world," the vampire continued coldly.  
Before Geralt could answer, the doppler behind him murmured, "This must stop now."  
This sudden outburst broke Geralt's concentration and calm facade, and he turned around to look at Frids. He was still in the shape of Yennefer. Geralt could not distinguish the two… that is, he could not have. But the doppler was clearly the version of Yennefer, whose face had taken an expression that oscillated between fear and determination.  
  
"It must stop," he repeated in Yennefer's voice, but something was different in it. Geralt frowned, it was not entirely clear yet, but something was happening here. He cast a quick glance across the room. Eskel and Lambert stood waiting - Eskel with calm composure, in a pose that was so thoroughly learned elegance that one could easily recognize Vesemir's handwriting in it. Lambert had raised his sword, holding it directly in front of his body, an aggressive defense with a completely tensed body. Everything about him said: let's attack. Triss, further back, had an extremely concentrated expression on her face. He knew it well - she was ready to strike, had a spell practically on her fingertips. Yennefer's smooth and cool face was completely calm again, clearly distinguishing her from her copy. Her willingness to attack was only apparent to Geralt - to everyone else, she must have seemed like a woman who outwardly was pure calmness.  
  
"Oh, and what are you of all people going to do about it? Don't you want to wait until I have paid you, doppler?" said the vampire with feigned kindness. "Because you know what we agreed upon. The amount could guarantee you a happy retirement."  
"A retirement?" repeated Frids, and now Geralt knew what was different. It was now hardly concealable: the doppler was about to change shape, and his voice was wavering. Shadows that were other figures were scurrying across his face in quick succession as if he couldn't make up his mind. But that was not what happened here.  
"That was a deceptive hope," Frids continued reluctantly. "A dream that never existed, I realize that now. Everything is clear to me, all my faults, all my sins. And the greatest of them was to believe you and do what you asked."  
The vampire looked genuinely confused for a moment, but he was soon back in control.  
"Well, I don't give a damn," Anies replied indifferently. "I only need this one, and I have her now. You will make room or not, what do I care? In the end, only she must stay alive. I would have liked to enjoy the game longer, but you are beginning to bore me."  
For a moment, he almost sounded like an offended child to Geralt, and maybe that came quite close to the truth. Maybe boredom _was_ his motivation — or at least one factor of it. An almost eternal life had to mean permanent repetition.  
  
"No," said Frids, "No. It has to stop here and now."  
Very slowly, his Yennefer imitation began to dissolve, but something about it seemed completely wrong. Geralt had been able to observe dopplers a few times when they transformed. It was never an incredibly beautiful sight. It was always as if a lump of clay independently looked for a shape - and that appeared as disgusting as it sounded. But now it almost looked as if the doppler was searching for a shape. But this shape did not want to form itself properly; simply everything looked wrong, askew and crooked. Clumpy, irregularly shaped parts that appeared in the wrong places. And now Geralt understood.  
"Stop it," he commanded the doppler. "Don't do that. It will kill you."  
Now even the vampire understood what was going on, and he laughed; loud and disgusting, his laughter echoed through the whole room, echoed off the walls, and roared in everyone's ears. "I told you not to try that." His voice sounded honestly amused. "Stop it," Triss now also said with deep concern in her voice. "This can't work. It will tear you apart..."  
"What's going on here?" Lambert asked, confused, and angry at the same time. "It must work. I need to know how he..." Frids began, but now it became clear that the attempted transformation was happening faster and faster. Unnaturally fast, shadows flitted across the doppler's face, which slowly lost its humanity and yet did not correspond to its usual shape. Now it was clear to everyone in the room that Frids was trying to take the form of the vampire - but as Anies had warned him, it was a fruitless endeavor. More than that, it was dangerous. Lethal. Frids could feel it; it seemed to tear him up inside. Usually, it was unnecessary to concentrate on one figure when he wanted to take it. No one knew exactly how it worked. Every doppler had a different answer to that question, but it was usually instinct. It just worked, like a thought. But if it really was a thought, the one about the vampire was a more than gloomy one. And it disappeared from the doppler again and again, as if the whole figure was not tangible. It seemed to him as if he was chasing after a ball of wool, which became more and more entangled, which wrapped around him until he was caught entirely in it.  
  
Then the cords pulled together around him and began to crush him. For a very brief, almost fleeting moment, Frids experienced a vague sense of the vampire's actual power, of what was inside him. But that one moment was so terrible, so destructive and horrible that he was glad to be gone again, as quickly as he had come. It had felt like darkness devouring him, but darkness with the quality of tar, hot and oppressive and deadly. It was the moment when Frids realized that he could not survive this transformation. "Too late," he groaned, and it was a warning. Still, visions of transformation twitched all over his body. With his last ounce of strength, he dragged himself backward, towards the next wall, away from the others.  
  
Now suddenly, everything seemed to happen at the same time as if time was running faster. In one moment, there was still the doppler, which was not able to take on a single shape, and the attempts almost seemed to tear his limbs apart. Then, a scream, high and desperate, a sound that would continue to ring in everyone's ears for a while. The air seemed to explode; a bang shattered the silence. But the doppler did not burst. A heartbeat long, its innermost part seemed to be turned outside, and then… he just melted away. All that remained of him was a grotesque puddle of blood and goo, mixed with some indefinable fluids that once might have been his bones.  
  
Geralt took a last look at the chaos with clenched teeth, then turned around and shouted in Ciri's direction, "Down!"  
While time seemed to have gone faster a moment ago, it now seemed to stand almost still. Ciri understood as quickly as he had expected while Geralt, sword raised, suddenly ran towards the vampire. Ciri braced herself against Anies' grip. Her body tensed up and withdrew from his hands; she writhed, regardless of the claws on her neck - because that little bit of pain and blood did not scare her. She ducked as fast as lightning, escaping the vampire, and the moment she felt no more resistance, she unrolled. Then she jumped into the corner where her sword had flown, while Geralt almost sank his own blade into the vampire's flesh with a quick push. But only almost, because for all the speed of a witcher, Anies had grasped the situation in a blink of an eye and repulsed the blow with his clawed hand. Yennefer ran to Triss and whispered something to her.  
  
Eskel and Lambert were immediately alongside Geralt, but they had not yet had a chance to attack. On the contrary: a sudden, powerful blow threw them all back so that each of them almost lost their footing. Almost faster than the human eye could see, Anies' shape changed. What had been human about him was now no more than a mere shell, which he stripped off as if it were annoying. But the only people who were clearly annoying were the witchers, who came much too close to him with their ridiculous little spikes. He was superior to them and to demonstrate this, he rose above in his proper form, tall and dark, sinister and hazardous. Yet, this did not frighten the witchers. And the sorceresses made every effort not to be intimidated by the figure that he had become, that ominous, winged creature that resembled nothing they had ever seen. Yennefer, who had already seen it, who still remembered the disgusting, leathery feel of those wings, hardened herself against the monster.  
  
"Ciri!" she shouted across the room and the sudden noises made by the transformation. Ciri, who meanwhile had her sword in her hand again and wanted to turn to the witchers, looked up. The gesture of the sorceress was clear and urgent. She took another look at Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert, who now circled the vampire. He was now so tall that his strange, triangular head almost hit the high ceiling. The witchers in front of him seemed almost tiny; everything about him was repulsive and monstrous. But that was the point, wasn't it? He was only a monster that had to be fought. Should he win, that was clear, he wanted her. As they all always wanted her, her blood, and the secrets that surrounded it. And Ciri desired nothing more than to give this vampire what he deserved - not what he wanted. But there was Yennefer, a pleading expression on her face. Although it didn't seem as if she wanted to hold her back, as if she wanted to prevent her getting into this fight. It was something else. So, she did not hesitate any longer and ran to the sorceresses.

  
The vampire was huge. Geralt had never seen anything like it, and he was almost convinced that Lambert and Eskel felt the same way. Before him, this one was just a pile of flesh from which limbs seemed to grow out in a grotesque way. The teeth that hung out of the mouth as if they did not even belong to the rest of the body were long and incredibly pointed. This was what they all had to fear. This here was the reason why he had been convinced from the beginning that this was not an opponent to take on alone. And now he was not even sure if three witchers were enough. He did not dare to turn around, but he could only hope that Yennefer and Triss would come up with something to keep the vampire in check. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted when the vampire gave off a deep rumble, which Geralt identified a second later as a kind of laughter. _Almost the worst thing was,_ he would tell Emhyr much, much later, _almost the worst thing was, that he could still speak. Even in this shape, he could still speak, even though he looked like a spawn of hell._ Emhyr would ask, "What did he say?" Yet Geralt would remain silent for a while as if this was a memory that one would rather not recall.  
  
"Is this what you imagined?"  
The voice was rough and deep and seemed to come from far away. It was a voice that could haunt one into his dreams. "Is this what you wanted?"  
Suddenly, one of the razor-sharp claws shot forward, no longer resembling a halfway human hand, now a leathery, sinewy thing only remotely resembling a hand. This inhuman blade almost hit Geralt. He quickly swerved to the side but knew at the same moment that he was not fast enough. Still, his senses were not entirely back, diffuse pain and dizziness filled his head when he moved too quickly. But there was Eskel, his face a mask of both determination and concentration, and his sword was in one breath between Geralt and the cloven hand. The claws crunched metallically on Eskel's blade, and the sheer force almost pushed him back, but he held his ground. From the other side, Lambert advanced now, whose attack the vampire fended off effortlessly with the other hand, but the permanent poking slowly became annoying. And vampire or not, he too only had two hands - or whatever it was, that had appeared on the tip of his wings - so Geralt rushed forward, looking for a weak point. There seemed to be none because the wings were so big and wide that they almost enclosed the body and barely allowed a view of skin. Geralt pushed forward, even if his sword barely scratched the irregular surface of the wings, which the vampire hardly noticed.  
The witchers circled the vampire as if they were the predators, and he was the prey, all aware that it was probably the other way around. Geralt had long since stopped pretending that they could have a chance. More and more often, the claws shot forward, and it became more and more difficult for the witchers to fend them off. The wings were weapons, too - heavy, hard, and almost impenetrable. They served as a defense and threw the witchers off-balance, pushed them back, and scratched their armor as the claws bored into it.  
  
Behind them stood the sorceresses and Ciri.  
"It will work, it must," said Yennefer and looked at Ciri who glanced at the witchers, at Geralt - was she the only one who noticed how difficult it was for him to keep his balance? She wanted to be there, with her sword, hacking the vampire into pieces once more. At the same time, she felt, no, she knew it had been pure luck that she had succeeded once. She had been so fast out of pure rage that she had surprised him, and he, busy maintaining his mind tricks, had not had a chance to transform. If he had taken on this form back then, none of them would have come out of the tower alive. Ciri was angry even now. At that time, all this had cost a young sorceress' life, and even if this was not directly the vampire's responsibility, she still placed some blame on him. In any case, he was responsible for the death of the doppler. Frids had not been innocent, but he had realized his mistakes and tried to make up for them until the end. He had lost the fight, and now another fight was waiting for them all, this one Ciri did not intend to lose. Still, what Yennefer had hastily explained to her seemed absurd.  
"I cannot call up this power at will," Ciri repeated what she had just explained to the sorceress. "I am sure that my magic is lost. We have already talked about this. It's all been so long..."  
"We do not talk about the past, not here and now," Yennefer said sharply. "I tell you that the magic is still in you and that you can call it up. I have tried to teach you that. And I know that you have listened. Did you listen, Ciri, do you remember what I said?“ Ciri knew it: _´Magic is information in your blood, we must learn to read it. The key is your emotions.´_  
  
But Ciri had closed herself to these teachings, had decided not to think about them, not to follow the thoughts. As for her, she had long ago lost the rudimentary magic that both sorceresses had tried to teach her to master as a child. It was not merely buried, as Yen believed. She believed that strong feelings were necessary to recall the magic. As if it were possible to eventually control it the way she had learned to control her jumps through space and time. Even that was still more instinct than anything else. How could emotions be a key? Ciri was full of feelings. There was fear, hatred, rage, and yes, sometimes arrogance and pride. There was deep attachment to everyone she liked, honest love for Geralt like from a real daughter to a real father. And even towards Emhyr, these feelings were no longer just confusing. Maybe she didn't love him, and maybe he didn't deserve that, but he did everything to earn her respect, and she acknowledged that. But feelings did not help; Ciri had experienced this often enough. Feelings made sure that one was cheated and abandoned. Feelings made sure that one lost fights, that scars were left behind. How could _feelings_ be a weapon?  
  
"We don't have much time," Triss urged. The witchers seemed to be circling the vampire, but in truth, it was more like him circling them. Yennefer's idea seemed like pure madness to her. She believed even less than Ciri herself that this could work. However, one thing was clear to her: if Yen thought it was possible, it would be as good as it could be. Yen believed in nothing if the chances of being right were not near to absolute. When she said she thought it could work, she was almost certain. And that had to be enough. They had no time to debate. And no time to try either. If it didn't work, they were all lost, one way or another.  
"Try, Ciri," she urged. "For Geralt. For all of us." Ciri looked forward again, to the witchers whose blades barely penetrated the vampire's wings. He had wrapped them around himself as best he could, while at the same time, he swung out with his claws, now almost manic. He dealt out blows as if he didn't care if and whom he hit at all. And he hit. Ciri saw blood; for a moment, she perceived every single cut, no matter how small, as if through a magnifying glass, incredibly clear and magnified umpteen times. She saw that Geralt was slowing down. He was still far from being okay, and his reactions were delayed.  
  
The effects of the potions the witchers had taken had to wear off soon, and in his weakened state, it was hard to predict what the aftereffects might be. The claws shot forward again, this time hitting Geralt directly. More than a scratch, a razor-sharp needle drilled into his thigh. Ciri saw how he flinched back and almost involuntarily reached for his leg. Damn it, it was the one he had broken that was still causing him trouble; hadn't the bite of a wild wolf been enough? She felt anger rise inside her, overtaking the concern. Geralt quickly recovered, and Lambert and Eskel did not let up in their attacks, shielding him and allowing him to breathe for a moment. The noises echoed louder and louder in Ciri's ears; she almost couldn't hear the sorceresses anymore. The beating of steel on steel, although the vampire's claws could not possibly be metallic. Scratching, crunching, fluttering, crackling. Dozens of sounds that were booming in her ears.  
"I know it," she said suddenly, almost breathlessly. "I know how to do it. "  
  
And _now_ she really knew. At least she had a clue. She could not have explained it. It was like an instinct or a deeply rooted thought in her consciousness. But at that moment, she felt that she could. The sorceresses and Ciri stood close together and stretched out their arms. Their fingertips touched each other.   
The vampire made a booming sound. More laughter from which pure superiority emanated. How could they ever have believed that even three witchers would be enough against such a creature? For a moment, Geralt felt strangely small, as if the vampire had grown even larger while Geralt shrank. He shook his head, causing a bolt of pain, but strangely enough also clearing his mind. It was feelings that the vampire emanated; he ejected them in waves that hit the witchers. Eskel and Lambert also felt them, felt that he was influencing them with his abilities, and still couldn't do anything about it. He didn't have to say anything; he didn't have to do anything else - the feelings of being inadequate and small were so strong that they were almost overrun by them. Nobody was immune to it; the thought was absurd, although Lambert was the one who resisted this urge the longest - if only out of pure defiance. Eskel heard Geralt calling over the static in his ears; he didn't understand it, but it was enough to turn his head, even though he had the feeling of moving in slow motion.  
But when he did, when he looked at Geralt, whose mouth now moved to almost inaudible words, the mist in his head cleared a little. He realized. It was hard, but he turned his head in Lambert's direction - he, too, stood almost still now, looked confused, and let the sword sink.  
"You have to fight it!" Eskel yelled, not knowing if those had been Geralt's words and if Lambert could hear him at all. Lambert blinked, then he looked at his right hand, which had almost let go of the handle of the sword. Now he grabbed it with both hands as if his sword was a claymore. As if it was heavy as lead, he lifted it very slowly, all three felt how hard it was and how easy it would have been to follow what the vampire radiated. The desire to lay down their weapons, to just lay down themselves, was strong.  
  
This was no longer part of his game; he didn't need to play with the witchers anymore. Now it was just a matter of destroying them because they were in the way of his goal. That goal was Ciri, and he would get her. This thought was indeed devastating. It rose in the witchers, hot and painful. Geralt could shake it off the least; it was not just a thought or a feeling for him. It was pain, physical pain, burning loud and deep, like something that dissolved his flesh and bones from within like those of the doppler. In a last attempt to fight it, Geralt thrust his sword vertically downwards, as if he wanted to ram it into the ground. He got down on his knees; nothing could be done against it, but he held on to the handle of the sword as if he was threatening to drown, and this would be his last hold.  
Ciri saw it, and to a certain extent, she felt what Geralt and the other witchers felt. The vampire's force was great, and yet his psychic powers did not quite reach the sorceresses and Ciri. It was more a hunch that radiated to them, but that - and the sight of Geralt, who desperatly clung to his sword - was enough. It was the last push she needed to awaken something inside her. What she believed was long buried, perhaps even dead, something that could never be reawakened. Yet it could.  
She looked at Triss and Yennefer with a look so full of love that she felt like she was almost overflowing. And somehow it was like that: something inside her was building up and getting bigger and bigger, hot and strong, and if she didn't ...  
"Now," said Yennefer, who saw the danger before Ciri could even think of it, and "Get down," she shouted in the direction of the witchers. For some reason, her voice was much stronger than usual: filled with invisible energy, it had a strange echo, shooting through the room like an arrow, reaching the witchers. Her voice now, at that very moment, had the power to rip apart the vampire's mental cobweb. Not much, just a bit, but just enough to get through to the witchers, who immediately obeyed the tangible command in her words.  
  
Pure energy emanated from her fingertips, a single concentrated beam in the purest, brightest blue, strong and so dense that it did not fray at the end but remained equally intense all the way through. At the same time, Triss followed suit. Although she could not boast of having powers similar to those of the other sorceress, her energy beam was no less powerful. Strangely enough, its color was different: pale green, and when it combined with that of Yennefer, the two colors mixed to form a bright, glowing turquoise that seemed out of this world.  
Only a heartbeat later, Ciri followed. At first, it seemed as if her fingers were hesitating to produce something like the sorceresses. _I am not a sorceress_. The thought was fleeting, but it was there. She repressed it. No, she was not a sorceress, she was _more_. At that moment, she was so much more, and perhaps she was the only one who realized the importance of the colors of the sorceresses' energy streams. If she was right, and these really had emanations of feelings, she was surprised when her own stream finally followed. The power shot out of her fingertips as if it was completely natural - it seemed to cost her no effort at all. Ciri had the feeling of hearing a voice, very distant, hardly understandable. _That is the right way._  
  
Her own beam was pure white. When it merged with those of the sorceresses, both gasped simultaneously. The power was so strong that they almost lost concentration. Ciri's magic not only mingled with that of the sorceresses, it took over. Yennefer's and Triss' ray had taken on a common hue, like in a painter's inkbox, but Ciri's white beam drowned out those colors. In the end, everything was white, and all feelings were hers.  
"Slowly," Yennefer murmured between clenched teeth. She saw Triss standing there with eyes wide open, and she herself had the feeling for a moment that she was swaying. Ciri was no longer interested in being slow. Slow was not her style. She could control time and space, she now realized how rudimentary this ability had been until then. There was so much more to be achieved. It was her power that directed the bundled beam, directly at the vampire. The magic hit the monster with full force. That was the moment when he lost power over the witchers - jerkily, as if one had cut a thread, they were suddenly freed from the radiating emotions and destructive thoughts. The vampire looked astonished at his chest, at where the energy beam continued hitting him. For a terrible moment it seemed as if the bundled magic had no effect at all: the beam had hit the leathery skin, but there it remained without any visible damage.  
  
The vampire's mouth was distorted into a scornful grin baring long teeth. Suddenly his expression changed. The sorceresses and Ciri did not increase their efforts. The vampire only suddenly realized what exactly had hit him there. He still stared at his chest - and now he felt all the power. Not only the magic, but the emotions. He wasn't human, there was nothing human about him anymore, so why should human emotions be able to affect him? The beam of energy drilled deeper into his chest, and he felt the pain. Pain such as he had never felt before. His attempt to withdraw, take a step back, to somehow avoid the beam failed. Waves of thoughts struck him, each one a sharp stake of emotion: love, connectedness, friendship. The mother who protected her child. The child: a piece of elf, a breath of sunshine, so radiantly bright, as if it had really risen in that moment. But also, a piece of wolf, a piece of magic, and behind all this a bond of people, who all together and each for themselves had feelings for the child and for each other.  
And yet they were only humans, sorceresses or witchers, no matter what.  
_Only humans,_ thought the vampire with surprise, _how can this hurt so much?_  
And yet it hurt. The energy seemed to devour through his chest like a ghoul through the corpses on a battlefield. The battle was over, it was time for the lower creatures… how absurd - yet so true. With a tremendous effort, the vampire opened his wings again, as if he wanted to fly away - although there was no room for it, but maybe he would have been able to push through the ceiling or the walls. It was all too late for that. The pure white ray on his chest was sharp as a sword. But a sword could only hurt him, maybe put him out of action for a short time.  
_Last time you used a sword,_ he thought. _You used a sword, and that was annoying, but this? This is…_ The thought disappeared; the pain was much stronger. The light bored deeper and deeper into his chest, on a direct path to his heart.  
  
_You too have a heart,_ spoke a voice in his thoughts, and his eyes widened. How was it possible that she possessed such power?  
_A heart can die._  
_Impossible,_ he thought.  
_Quite possible,_ said the voice in his head, sounding amused.  
_Perhaps you will destroy my heart,_ he thought. _But will I really be dead? Never._  
_Oh, you will be dead,_ said the voice. _There is no one to come to your rescue. No friend will be at your side to revive you, to give you the strength to build a new heart from the meager remains I will leave of you. No one will cry for you. Look around. This is **my** family. Where is yours?_  
He knew that she planted this thought in him like a devilish seed - she used his own abilities against him. However, he could not defend himself against it. She was right: nobody would come to save him or help him if she had destroyed him. That she would destroy him was certain at that moment.  
  
"Ciri," Triss murmured, and it sounded almost like a prayer.  
"Ciri, take it easy, child, it's too much…" Yennefer sighed, almost a wail. Her jaws were so hard that she could barely get her teeth apart. "It's true," she gasped. "We can't hold it much longer. It's too much, you'll destroy us all."  
It almost seemed as if her voice would not penetrate to Ciri. Her eyes had taken on a supernatural glow. A strange aura seemed to surround her - pure magic, sheer power. But magic did not only give, magic took. Uncontrolled, it would take everything and eat up Ciri from within. She was already close to losing the last bit of control, it was tangible. If that happened, Ciri would lose herself. The sorceresses had already seen this. In every class at every academy across the Continent, there had been men and women who could not stand the force, who never learned to control the chaos. It had been like this for ages, ever since magic had made its way into this world. Not everyone was cut out for it. Ciri was, had always been, but controlling her power was like trying to tame the wind.  
  
The witchers were still lying on the ground where Yennefer's words had forced them. Lambert was almost on his knees again, the beam of energy drawing his gaze, he could not escape the sight. He knew he had to, because the power it gave off was much stronger than what the vampire had done to them before. Eskel had understood this faster, he didn't look, he looked at Geralt lying flat on his back, the sword limp in his hand as if it didn't belong to him. Again, it seemed to him as if he had to reach through fog, as if his own hand did not belong to him, but he managed to stretch it out and grab Geralt's arm. Geralt lay much too close to the vampire, who was still threatening and dark and huge above them. Eskel grabbed and pulled, that somehow helped to release Geralt from his paralysis. Yet, he couldn’t get up, let alone get down on his knees. He realized that something was going on and that it would be better to get out of the danger zone, but he could barely lift his boots into the ground. Half being pulled, half slipping, he moved away from the vampire. Finally, he managed to lift his head a little bit. His eyes fell on Ciri. He called her name, or at least he thought he did, but it was more of a hoarse croak. Whatever was going on, one thing he grasped very clearly at that moment: that what she was doing was too dangerous. It was bigger than she was, and she had to stop.  
  
"Ciri!"  
Once again, her name echoed through the room, rough and somewhat hoarse, but she recognized the voice like no other, and at last, finally, it reached her.  
_It is not enough,_ thought the voice inside her, vengeful and great and… evil.  
_But it is enough,_ thought her own voice.  
One last time she amplified the power from her fingertips, and the light became so bright that it illuminated the whole room, penetrated to the last corner, shining so brightly that millions of grains of dust sparkled in it. Lambert reached for Eskel, Eskel reached for Geralt, and they embraced each other in a desperate attempt to escape the energy. Who was pulling and dragging whom was no longer clear, but they moved out of the area of influence, stumbling and sliding and crawling into a corner. The light was everywhere by now, and it hurt not only Geralt's eyes.  
Still none of them could close their eyes, each seeing the energy beam radiating deeper into the vampire's chest. A sound filled the room, so high that it could have shattered glass. Was it the energy or the vampire? It was impossible to tell. The monster's face was just a grimace, and the sharp ends of his wings pushed forward like hands trying to grab the pure energy. It was as pointless as it was ridiculous, he just burned himself. In fact, his wings caught fire as if the beam of light was a flint. Then it hit the heart, crushed it, set it on fire and incinerated it. But the vampire was still standing, even though his movements had suddenly stopped. His wings spread wide open, he stood motionless, his mouth wide open, his sharp teeth only a vague reminder of the danger that could have come from them.  
  
He burned, from the outside as well as from the inside now, and the fire reached the triangular head, until it even devoured the eyes, which stared incredulously at Ciri and the sorceresses until the end. Then, suddenly, a stabbing flame, and the beam of light had no hold anymore; it bumped against the opposite wall. In no time at all cracks appeared in the wall.  
"Stop it," Yennefer shouted over the roar of the fire and the rush of her blood in her ears. As if she too was on fire, her fingertips flinched back, breaking the connection, and she gasped and held her hands as if she had burned them. With effort, Triss also broke the contact, so that it was now only Ciri's ray, still pulsing from her fingers, until the wall cracked dangerously.  
  
Although his head was booming like the first time he woke up in this house, and although his whole body was aching for some reason, Geralt pressed his hands on the dusty floor and pushed himself up. He lifted himself up, although at first it was only enough to get down on his knees, and he crawled a bit closer to Ciri. He did not waste his energy calling her again, instead he concentrated on getting on his feet. Finally succeeding, and wavering, almost trembling, he approached her. The dizziness was now strong again, so strong that it turned black before his eyes, but once more he bit his tongue until it bled, and he remained upright. It seemed to take him a thousand steps to reach her, but in truth there were very few.  
Geralt stumbled forward until he almost reached her, and then he jumped - much less elegant than a real wolf, but with the same determination. He jumped at her, threw himself on her, did what the sorceresses could not do, petrified and frozen as they were. Geralt pushed Ciri to the floor, and for one terrible moment the beam did not break - it twitched uncontrollably from her fingers across the room, and Lambert and Eskel, almost on their feet again, threw themselves to the floor once more. Geralt's whole body weight pressed Ciri to the ground, and they fell hard. He had just enough presence of mind to roll away from her, then he lay on his back, hearing himself make a strange sound.  
  
As soon as the contact to her magic finally broke, Ciri realized what had happened. She lifted herself up.  
"Geralt," she gasped and grabbed his shoulders, looked at his face, sought his gaze. For a moment, he didn't answer, his gaze wasn't even focused, it was empty - as empty as he was.  
"You idiot," she growled, and then she noticed with relief that a slight smile played around his face.  
"You sound like your father," muttered Geralt. It made her laugh, although her laughter sounded more like a sob. Slowly and carefully, Geralt turned his head, looked where the vampire had stood seconds ago. There was nothing left but ashes.  
  
On it, the rest of a flame danced, glowed… and finally died.


	33. Find me in the circle, find me in the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the following one are not beta-read. All strange expressions are on me in these two :)

**\- 32 -**

**Find me in the circle, find me in the end**

Geralt just lay there, breathing, thinking that he should feel relieved now that this threat was over. But actually he felt nothing at all. Triss's face suddenly shifted into his field of vision, and he felt her cool fingers on his forehead. He raised one hand to push her own away, but she just shoved him aside.  
"Stop that if you want to stand upright at your own wedding," she scolded. "There's not much I can do anyway, but at least enough so that nobody has to carry you back, you idiot."  
"Why am I the idiot here," he growled. "Would you have rather been buried beneath stones?"  
"Well, for once he's probably right," Yennefer was now heard. She shook her hands, which felt almost numb after the spell, and then straightened her clothes, although there was nothing to straighten. "That almost went wrong, Ciri.“  
All kinds of emotions ran over Ciri's face when she looked at Yennefer and Triss. "It's good that all this was buried for so long," she finally said with an almost bitter undertone. "No one should have this power."  
"These powers are neither good nor bad," Yennefer replied sternly. "If I had succeeded in teaching you this much earlier..."  
"I have endangered you all," Ciri interrupted the sorceress heatedly.  
  
"But you also defeated the vampire," Lambert said. He stood beside the remains - not much more than ashes and dust now. As if he couldn't believe that this had actually once been the vampire, his boot stirred around in this heap. "Shouldn't we scatter this stuff to the four winds?" he finally asked, directed at no one specifically.  
Eskel, who had joined him, calmly replied, "This one will definitely not get up again."  
"Regis was just a puddle," Geralt interjected.  
"Be quiet," Triss berated him.  
"But he had help," Ciri said. "Regis was _not_ alone. And I really doubt that tissue can be regenerated from _ashes_ again."  
Still, she didn’t sound too convinced.  
Yennefer sighed.  
"Get away from there," she ruled Lambert and Eskel, and they both stepped aside, frowning. A muttered spell, a hand movement, and one of the windows at the end of the room shattered completely when it was opened by an invisible force. Another gesture, and the pile that once had been a vampire rose into the air, forming some kind of round shape. It floated towards the window, flew out - and shortly afterwards exploded into millions of grains of ash and dust.  
"Dramatic," Lambert remarked cynically.  
"It was your idea," Yennefer replied calmly. "I don't suppose even the oldest vampire of all time would have the patience to sit down and form a shape from these particles again."  
Eskel snorted, and Lambert shook his head while muttering something incomprehensible. In the meantime, Triss had helped Geralt up, had wiped the dust off her clothes - with the unpleasant feeling that possibly the smallest remainder of the vampire might stick to it - and now said, "I hope this little demonstration didn't cost you too much, because someone will still have to open a portal."  
With a little smile, Yennefer replied, "Ciri can do it."  
"What?" squealed Ciri. "I certainly don't want to use magic for a very long time. Besides, I don't even know how to do it."  
"And I won't walk through any portal that Ciri created," Geralt grumbled.  
"Hey," she said outraged and slapped him on the upper arm. He just grinned.  
Yennefer sighed again, a clear sign of her impatience, and that she had had enough of all this.  
"This is clearly the strangest wedding I have ever been invited to," she murmured.  
"We haven't even started celebrating yet," Geralt replied with a broad grin.  
The sorceress rolled her eyes, and a little later a teleport was ready, which they all used more or less willingly.  
  
"The sun will rise soon," Lambert said with a searching look to the horizon as they stood in the courtyard of the palace again. "We should try to get back in without attracting too much attention."  
"It grieves my heart that we cannot give the doppler a decent burial," Triss said softly.  
"We _can_ do that," Geralt said, "even without his remains."  
And that was true, as Triss realized. What was left of him had nothing to do with who he had been anyway. And even though none of them had truly gotten to know Frids in that short time, he still deserved to be remembered.  
"What day is today?" Ciri suddenly asked, staring at the sky as if it could answer her question.  
"Two more days," Triss replied gently. "The wedding is in two days."  
"And we are rid of the vampire," Lambert said. "There may indeed be a happily ever after." It sounded nearly sympathetic - and it actually was, for he really wished Geralt to be happy. Even if it had to be with the Emperor of Nilfgaard. After being somewhat close to a sorceress now, although he would have never thought that this would ever happen, he felt his level of tolerance being very adaptable.  
"There is still that mage," Geralt reminded him.  
"You won't be bothering about him now," Triss said, gesturing vaguely at the palace. "Get some sleep, that's what we all should do, by the way. I think de Groot has given up."  
  
Everything was quiet, and although this was of course because only the sunrise would bring actual life into the palace, this silence also meant that obviously nothing had happened during the night. Triss had always had a possible attack by the mage in mind, like a kind of smouldering fire that could become a bigger problem at any time. It had not been easy for her to leave - she actually took her duties as court sorceress very seriously. Even if she had originally done all this just to help Geralt and maybe to get rid of old feelings of guilt that resided within her. It hadn't been easy at first to come to terms with all this: that Geralt was actually happy. That this was due to the Emperor, of all people. The feelings the man evoked in her were extremely ambivalent. But finally she had to admit to herself that it would not only have been hardly possible to refuse his offer. But that he had to overcome himself as much as she had. And for what reason had they both done this? Because of Geralt, of course.  
  
"I do not know this mage," Eskel interrupted her thoughts, "but I have never seen a sorcerer who simply gives up."  
"For once, no one wants to hear your logic today," Ciri said, and she sounded exhausted.  
"Right," Yennefer agreed with her and took Ciri by the arm. "We should all rest now."  
"But not for long, because Ciri and I have to receive the Skellige delegation that is expected this morning," Triss replied.  
Ciri sighed, an almost perfect imitation of Yennefer without even noticing.  
"As much as I am happy to see Cerys, could they not have chosen another time for their arrival?" she moaned.  
"You mean couldn’t the numerous death threats have chosen another time," Eskel said surprisingly dryly, and that actually made everyone smile.

  


Emhyr never woke up slowly. His eyes never seemed to need to get used to the sudden loss of sleep - he was just there, instantly alert. As if his body automatically knew that the sun had risen. He was simply used to it. But there was one thing he would hopefully never get used to: the sight that awaited him when he opened his eyes now.  
"You did it," he said. It was a simple statement, and yet much depended on the answer.  
"We did it," Geralt confirmed, lying next to him. How long had he been lying there, watching him sleep? There was a slight smile on his face, both joy and wonder - even now he was amazed at who he was lying here with and how much it meant to him. Emhyr recognized this because he felt that way himself. Relief mixed into his own feelings, because Geralt had kept his word. He had returned, just like he had said.  
"The vampire..." Emhyr began, but Geralt briefly interrupted him, "We don't have to worry about him anymore."  
Emhyr knew him well enough to know that it was pointless to ask him about it - obviously he didn't want to talk about it. At least not now.  
"And you?" he asked instead, looking at him attentively. "What about you?"  
"I'm fine," came the terse answer, and he was, at least for the moment. He was still healing, and even though it was never particularly pleasant, in most cases he preferred it to magic. Geralt relied on Triss in this case - if she didn't dare to work on his skull with magic support, he didn't even want to try. What she had done was sufficient for now. Pain and dizziness had receded into the background, and the gaze with which he looked at Emhyr was clear.  
"Are you?" Emhyr mumbled, as he raised one hand and gently stroked over Geralt's cheek. "Really?"  
Geralt grabbed Emhyr's hand, held it tight and pressed a kiss on it. "Really," he repeated, smiling. "What about this mage?" he then asked.  
  
Emhyr did not answer immediately. It was quite clear to Geralt, that he too had one of those little moments when he didn't want to answer. He would, probably, at some point. But not now.  
"I guess we'll know soon," Emhyr finally said, evasively. "In any case, he didn't show up. He hasn't been found yet either. He can't be in the palace anymore, impossible."  
"You think he just gave up?"  
The thought seemed rather improbable to Geralt, although Triss had expressed herself in a similar way. But then why should de Groot have made all these efforts at all?  
"I don't know," Emhyr replied, completely honestly. "Perhaps he did not expect that it would come out so early that the headmaster of the academy died - and not a natural death. Perhaps this thwarted his plans, and he preferred to disappear. We'll know more in a few hours, I guess."  
He chose his words - and his intonation - in such a way that Geralt knew that he thought the subject was finished for the time being. He didn't do this often, not with Geralt, and as if he wanted to make up for it immediately or take the edge off his tone, he bent over and kissed him.  
This shouldn't have surprised Geralt, because as eloquent as Emhyr was, he seemed to know exactly two ways to end a conversation he didn't want to have. At least in dealing with him. And in this case, he liked it.  
Far too quickly, Emhyr ended the kiss, suddenly leaning jerkily on his elbows and looking across Geralt to the door.  
"Is he still out there? The door is open," he asked quietly with a wrinkled forehead.  
Indeed: the door to the adjacent room was still open. The feline had spent the night on its threshold, leaning against the door frame, sitting on the floor.  
"Who, Adan? No, I sent him away as soon as I got back. I probably just forgot the door," Geralt replied.  
"Oh really?" The sparkle in Emhyr's eyes was very familiar to Geralt. "Then be quiet," he added as he wrapped his arms around Geralt with a little smile.  
  
Later - much later - Emhyr murmured into the mess of white hair spread across his chest, "Not all the guests have arrived yet. Not even your friend, that lecherous bard."  
" _Lecherous?_ " Geralt snorted in Emhyr's side. "Dandelion has long since settled down, as you well know."  
"Procreating a child does not make a man settled."  
"As we can see in you."  
A sound, almost a laugh, rose from Emhyr's chest.  
"Rumor has it that I'm getting married."  
"Hm, so is Dandelion, and yet that is how you think about him," Geralt replied in the same tone. A moment later he raised his head and searched for Emhyr's gaze.  
"Wait a moment. Are you _nervous_?“  
"Do I _look_ nervous to you?" Emhyr returned calmly. Maybe a little too calm.  
"I don't know," Geralt replied honestly, "I don't know what you look like when you get nervous."  
"I never get nervous," Emhyr claimed. "But if so, now might be a good time. Two more days, Geralt."  
"Two days," he repeated quietly, though only after a little while.  
Emhyr had started running his fingers through Geralt's hair again.  
"Are you falling asleep?" he asked, though he could clearly feel the steady breaths on his chest.  
"Hm."  
For a moment, Emhyr was silent, then he said so quietly that it was hardly audible - except for Geralt, he was certain, "Are you still sure?"  
"But you _are_ nervous," Geralt murmured after a while. "I'm sure if you are."  
Emhyr did not answer, at least not in words. He simply wrapped his arms a little closer around Geralt, and waited until the breath on his chest had become completely even.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "This will never end".


	34. Truth lurks hidden in the shadows

**\- 33 -**

**Truth lurks hidden in the shadows**

When Emhyr called her into his study, the most obvious assumption for Triss was that he wanted a report on the vampire encounter. That he had also called Adan, but not Ciri, was strange. And the true reason for this little summoning was quite a surprise to her.  
In a few words, Emhyr informed his court sorceress that he had brought forward a long planned project without her. Emhyr had foreseen her reaction and therefore took it calmly. In short, she was in a rage.  
"We've been working on this for _months_!“ she yelled. Adan, who had no idea what Triss had to do with it all, was fascinated by her outburst of rage. He had never even imagined that she could get so angry that she would scream. At the same time, it was a fascinating sight: she was, he thought, still beautiful, even with the frown wrinkles on her forehead.  
Her cheeks were reddened, her eyes were flashing. However, they also flashed at him - he probably stared at her a bit too directly.  
"For months! I worked out the details with you for nights on end," Triss repeated, and she even bumped her fist into Emhyr's desk. He did not even blink. However, Adan noticed, his hands grasped the armrests of his chair a little tighter.  
"And others have worked on it before you," Emhyr coldly reminded the sorceress. "The foundation for this project was laid much longer ago than you are my advisor, do not forget that."  
  
These words slightly took the wind out of Triss' sails. She did not answer - she knew for sure that he was right. That he had gone through with it anyway, without consulting her, she oddly resented him. It was strange, because this was not Triss' first position in politics - and she should be used to the peculiarities of queens and kings. But Emhyr was above all that, in many ways. Getting used to him seemed to be much more difficult, and Triss wondered, not for the first time, how Geralt had managed to penetrate this façade of hardness, impatience and intransigence. However, the similarities that both had in common did not escape her. In addition, Triss believed that Emhyr had formed a bond with his former court sorceress because of Geralt. It was conceivable that he thought this was a weakness he did not want to repeat. Or that he thought it was unthinkable to get as close to her - also because of Geralt, or rather because of their shared past. Emhyr seemed to trust her, if he would ever trust a sorceress. But the looks he had given Yennefer had not escaped her notice.  
  
Emhyr’s next words tore Triss from her thoughts, though he addressed them to Adan. "What happened last night?" he asked.  
Adan held the intelligence reports in his hand and now put them on the table.  
"Basically nothing," he replied. "All the sorcerer's guest quarters were under surveillance, and de Groot never showed up. Moreover, no one seems to have made contact with him. As requested, no one had the opportunity to have a big talk among each other about the plans - or anything else."  
"They will do that as soon as they are gone," mumbled Emhyr, quickly going over the papers.  
"Of course, nobody can forbid them," Triss said somewhat sharply.  
"That would be counterproductive, after all they are _supposed_ to make suggestions to me," he replied with composure.  
"In any case, they would only have had opportunities to talk at night, but obviously they are clean," Adan added.  
"They must have figured that they would be monitored here," Triss said thoughtfully. "I wonder why you thought de Groot would take such a risk."  
"He has few alternatives," the feline interjected. "The Impera Brigade is after him, the secret service, the assasin… practically everyone in the palace could be an informer. I don't think he's still here."  
"What does this headmaster affair mean?" Triss asked.  
Emhyr had started drumming impatiently with his fingers on the armrests again. "If de Groot really killed him - or is somehow responsible for it - the question is why. What does he get out of it?"  
  
"None of this makes any sense," Triss said frustratedly. "Suppose he _did_ kill the headmaster of the academy, took his place on the guest list and then tried in vain to hit you with an arrow - why did he just disappear? What is it about this empty box in his room, why did he appear to us there as an illusion?"  
"He clearly knew that we would investigate his room," Adan threw in. "It was a trap, with whatever purpose. Perhaps he had more than one string on the bow?"  
"Meaning?" asked Emhyr with blatant impatience.  
Adan raised his hands defensively.  
"I don't know either, I'm just speculating. He might have come up with a plan B, in case the attack disguised as an accident would fail in the hunt."  
"A plan to replace the court sorceress?" Triss asked thoughtfully. "There would have been more to it than accusing me of breaking into his chambers. Besides, I was acting on behalf of the Emperor."  
"He didn't know that," Emhyr replied slowly. "And even if he had, he could have expected me to deny it."  
For a moment, there was an almost surprised silence. But of course, he was right. In the game of courtly intrigue, a single figure was no great loss. Not even a sorceress.  
"So you think all his plans failed, and he just gave up?" Triss asked, addressing Adan. He shrugged his shoulders.  
"Maybe he lost his nerve, maybe he made his plans on short notice. Perhaps he didn't count on the additional witchers. In any case, he can't be in the palace. If the soldiers haven't found him by now, the assassin would definitely have succeeded."  
"But that doesn't mean he won't return again," said Emhyr.  
"That would be crazy - even if the search is abandoned, he must expect that you have instructed the soldiers to pay special attention to him. You have already increased the guards. So far, it looks like he's alone, there's nothing to suggest that other wizards are involved. Or the vampire, who we don't have to worry about anymore.“  
  
"Another festivity is planned for tonight, and the Skellige fraction will be among those present," Emhyr reminded them. Triss frowned and looked at him sharply.  
"Are you nervous?" she asked him straight ahead.  
"Do I look nervous to you?“ Emhyr replied - in a much cooler voice, he repeated the words he had already told Geralt. Only to Triss, he would never admit that the preparations with all the obstacles actually cost him nerves. Or maybe it was the wedding itself.  
  
"I just want to know how you assess the risk. Actually, I want to hear it from both of you."  
Adan looked at Triss in surprise. She glanced back at him briefly, but had better control over herself. Apparently, the feline had suddenly become Emhyr's personal security advisor - without knowing it. Better if he behaved like this now, Triss thought. However, his actions were by no means as unpredictable as they were six months ago.  
"I believe the security measures are sufficient," Triss finally replied. "Besides, you will not be alone."  
"We can adjust the seating arrangement," Adan suggested. "It may look funny when all the witchers and sorceresses are grouped around you like mice around cheese, but it's safe anyway.“  
The look Emhyr gave him clearly had to do with the fact that he was reluctant to be compared to _cheese_ , but it was still relatively mild.  
Finally he stood up abruptly and said, "That's settled then."  
He took a quick look out the window and added, "We'll be seeing each other in an hour. I expect appropriate attire."  
With that he left the room. Adan looked at Triss with a frown. "Did he mean me - or you?" he asked. The sorceress glanced back at him in surprise.  
"That was indeed a _joke_. You are making progress."  
Smiling, she left the room. Adan looked after her in confusion.  
"What was the joke?" he muttered.

Geralt awoke from the vague feeling of not being alone. That was good, it meant that his senses were almost functioning normally again. But obviously not quite yet, because when he opened his eyes, he noticed from the fading light that fell through the window that he must have slept quite a long time. Emhyr sat next to him on the bed. He smiled one of his rare little smiles when Geralt looked at him.  
"You changed your clothes," Geralt noted. He frowned, leaned on his elbows and continued, "Wait. The Skellige fraction?"  
Emhyr, dressed completely in black except for the elegant, long coat with silver and golden embroideries and a grey fur collar, nodded. Geralt glanced to the window.  
"Were you going to let me sleep?"  
"I thought about it, yes," Emhyr admitted. "You're not quite up to the mark yet."  
He briefly raised his hand when Geralt frowned and started to answer.  
"Save your usual 'leave that to me' talk, my dear," he said.  
"Are you trying to patronize me, _my dear_?“ Geralt replied, but Emhyr could see the slightly raised corners of his mouth. Mastering his facial features had never been something Geralt was good at.  
"Hardly, because then I would have woken you up an hour ago and forced you into the clothes you hate to wear," Emhyr replied. Once more, he couldn't despair a slight smile, because Geralt looked at him searchingly to find out how much of it was actually meant to be funny.  
"You haven't really been sitting there staring at me for an hour, have you?"  
"It would have been no loss anyway," Emhyr returned. "I certainly wouldn't be unhappy if I found so much time to spend it just _staring_ at you, as you so kindly put it."  
Geralt's smile became broader. "You're getting really soft," he said. Emhyr leaned forward and replied softly, very close to Geralt's face, "I told you before, you don't have to tell anyone else."  
  
Geralt surprisingly escaped the expected kiss, evaded Emhyr and slipped out of bed dexterously.  
"I'd better hurry," he said mischievously.  
"I may well appear a little late," Emhyr hummed.  
"You want to make the ruler of Skellige wait? That's not like you," Geralt said in a mocking tone as he reached for the clothes that were already waiting for him.  
While Geralt pulled the slightly longer-cut black shirt over his head and cursed about the obligatory frills, Emhyr calmly remarked, "It's only a handful of islands."  
Geralt looked at him in surprise.  
"All right, now I'm beginning to think you're getting sick or something."  
"Nonsense."  
"This is not your first wedding."  
"I don't think there's any comparison," replied Emhyr.  
"Fine, I admit to that," Geralt said as he slipped into his boots. "Still, you give the impression that you wish it was already over."  
"While that's supposed to be your part, you mean?"  
This time, Emhyr's smile was clearly visible.  
"You seem to think that I'm staffing up like this because of you," Geralt returned. "Actually, I'm doing it because of Cerys, of course."  
"Who will probably show up dressed in five layers of furs," Emhyr replied stoically.  
Geralt snorted amusedly.  
"You have no idea of the island's customs, do you?"  
He reached for Emhyr's hand and pulled him up.  
"Come," he said. "Even for Skellige, it's considered impolite to keep guests waiting."  
  
They met Triss and Adan, who had been showing up constantly together someplace lately, at one of the exits to the courtyard.  
"Whose idea was it to move the whole thing outside?" Emhyr asked. It wasn't clear what he thought - at least he didn't snap at anyone about it, which was probably a good sign. Triss replied, "I didn't know about it until just now." She looked at Adan, who shrugged.  
"I had nothing to do with this," he replied. "However, the event is much more difficult to monitor from the outside."  
"I thought we agreed that de Groot was no longer a danger," Emhyr said as they walked through the doors, pushed open by waiting servants.  
"As if he was the only one who had anything against you," Adan grumbled under his breath.  
Geralt, noticing Emhyr's gaze, put one hand on his arm and said, "Calm down, both of you. The only thing to worry about here would be the temperatures. However, we are talking about Skelligers."  
"Fine, but we're not all hardened in sea air," Triss complained, referring to her very elegant but actually quite thin robe.  
  
In the courtyard, round tables stood under blossom-white tablecloths, and the shape and arrangement of these tables had indeed been Adan's idea - a concession to the fact that they could not be one hundred percent sure about the magician's intentions. And in this way, it actually looked somewhat natural when the witchers and Yennefer sat at a table near the emperor. Whereby Triss would be with him, just like Ciri. It was safe, the feline reassured himself again, and yet he could not shake off a subliminal feeling. He had heard nothing more of Birke and had the almost paranoid thought that the assassin was creeping around the yard looking for de Groot.  
  
_That's really paranoid,_ Adan thought and shook off the thought - but not without taking a sharp look around. But what he saw was most harmless. The courtyard was lit by numerous torches and candlesticks, and fire bowls were also set up. This part of the courtyard was surrounded on all sides by the palace. There were only three entrances or exits, one of which was a narrow archway that led further into other parts of the complex and finally to the gardens. The archway was guarded on both sides, as were the other two exits. This did not even seem exaggerated in view of the high attendance. It was a comparatively small company, consisting of Cerys, her giant brother as her personal advisor, and an entourage that was almost modest by royal standards. In addition, there were several other guests, all of whom were presumably selected for some complicated political reasons, Adan suspected.  
  
All in all, however, the event was attended by barely more than 50 people, which, given the local conditions, was almost paltry. He would not sit down at any of the tables, but would place himself on the palace wall a short distance from Emhyr. From here he had a good overview of the events. He did not care what impression he made. In the end, probably none of the guests found it strange that Emhyr seemed to have a fully armed witcher in addition to the soldiers. Not after he would marry a witcher after all. The only one who actually complained - if only to Eskel - was Lambert, who did not quite understand why Adan was allowed to wear his armor while he was, as he put it, _"covered with frills"._  
  
Apart from that, the evening seemed to run smoothly. The further the festivities progressed, the louder (and drunker) the Skelligers became. As a token of their appreciation, they had brought musicians from the islands, which after a few hours formed the appropriate backdrop for the clearly tipsy guests. Emhyr, to Geralt's surprise, took the rather exuberant mood reasonably calm. Geralt himself preferred to hold back with the alcohol - less for reasons of etiquette than on Triss' advice. Indeed, he felt better, although the air out here was not too fresh anymore either, filled with the smoke of torches and fires. Perhaps sleep had indeed done him good, at least his head hardly hurt at all, and the dizziness had receded into the background in a tolerable way.  
Emhyr held his hand under the table, which seemed as silly as it was touching. At the same time it reminded Geralt again of the dream he had been having. He remembered only fragments, but he knew that this dream had aroused contradictory feelings in him. He remembered that they had held each other by the hands. And yet, there was also a dull, unsettling feeling that was associated with it.  
  
By now it was completely dark all around, but out there it was easy to forget. The light of the torches and fires was reflected from the walls, and above the smoke the starry sky above them was barely visible. At some point, a liveried servant approached Emhyr's table and whispered some words to him. Emhyr seemed visibly irritated, so Adan - quickly and silently, almost like a shadow - approached him.  
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.  
"Nothing at all," Triss interfered. "He apparently only forgot that there are fireworks."  
"Fireworks?"  
"I don't know anything about any _fireworks_ ,“ Emhyr replied in a tone that made it clear that he had said so at least once before - and he hated to repeat himself.  
"I think it's a nice idea," Ciri said in a somewhat uncertain voice. Adan looked at her critically. She seemed slightly drunk - and besides, she had been making hand signals towards Cerys for a long time. Even now Ciri stared over at her. All evening she had been looking as if she would have preferred to sit with the skelliger, but out of respect for her father she bowed to etiquette.  
Next to the table still stood the servant, who seemed slightly confused.  
"Your Imperial Majesty," he said uncertainly, "what shall I tell the pyromancer now? Should he begin?"  
Emhyr turned to Adan.  
"Look at that," he commanded curtly. The witcher was surprised at the tension in the Emperor's voice.  
"Fine, if I am now also appointed expert on fireworks," he murmured, telling the servant to go ahead.  
"You exaggerate," muttered Geralt in Emhyr's direction. But he shook his head.  
"There's something about this that I don't appreciate."  
"What, that you're not in control?"  
In anticipation of a snappy answer, he reached for his glass with a grin and lifted it.  
"Courageous," Emhyr replied under his breath.  
Before Geralt could answer, a figure seemed to materialize from the shadows, appeared behind Emhyr - and held a blade to his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Harvest of Sorrow". Finally :)


	35. I've seen this bitter end

**\- 34 -**

**I’ve seen this bitter end**

The mage's mouth had been twisted into the triumphant caricature of a smile. De Groot seemed so sure that he had surprised them all - which he was right about - that his hand held the handle of the long dagger loosely. He did not even really touch Emhyr's skin; it seemed unnecessary. De Groot seemed to know what he was doing: instead of holding the blade sideways, he pointed with the tip at the Emperor's neck. Geralt, who had stood up very slowly and carefully, noticed this clearly. Many people underestimated the amount of effort, and the time it took to cut someone's throat. Unless one had a lot of experience in this, it did not necessarily go as fast as expected. Hardly anyone became a murderer recklessly - it took more than courage to apply the pressure necessary for a deadly cut. It might seem easy to hit the neck veins, but even that could go wrong. Just striking them, on the other hand, was much easier.  
  
Geralt considered all of this in a fraction of seconds, his cool calculation almost surprised himself. Apparently, he had learned more from Emhyr than expected. The latter sat there quite relaxed, looked stoically straight ahead and seemed to just wait and see. "Get up," de Groot said softly. Emhyr waited a heartbeat too long for Geralt's taste before he stood up wordlessly. Geralt threw a quick glance around. Many of the Skelligers had jumped up, as one could tell by the hastily overturned chairs. The music had ended abruptly, but the sudden, eery silence seemed unnatural.  
He saw a couple of blades - like the witchers, the Skelligers had not been deterred from following etiquette superficially. All soldiers raised their swords. Triss and Yennefer had stood up, and from their concentrated faces and the looks they threw at each other, it was obvious that they were ready. Ready for what? It had to be clear to the mage that he had no chance at all. Nevertheless, he was the one with the blade to the Emperor's neck. He could have killed him immediately - of course he knew that this would be his end as well. Geralt probably would have killed him with his bare hands, if necessary. But de Groot just stood there, his hand so incredibly loose, the whole figure so relaxed.  
  
"What is this all about?" Ciri asked, who had also risen. She stood on the other side, next to Emhyr. If necessary, she would be faster than anyone else here, thanks to her powers. Yet she was careful. Maybe it was because of what had happened to the vampire. Maybe she had reached a point again where she didn't trust her powers. In fact, she had made similar calculations in her thoughts as Geralt. It did not seem to be about killing Emhyr on the spot. So, what was it about then?  
"Call your henchman back, and we will see," said the mage.  
"What _henchman_?“ Emyhr asked, still surprisingly calm. He stood very still, didn't even try to turn around, didn't say a superfluous word, didn't ask anything. It was as if he had been trained on how to behave in such a situation - and Geralt thought that this was a very realistic assumption.  
"You mean the witcher?" Emhyr continued. De Groot didn't answer. For a moment, he just stood there, mute; his eyes narrowed as if he was thinking hard. Or as if he had to concentrate on something else and hadn't really been listening at all.  
A vague thought came to Geralt, and with a quick sideways glance at Triss, he noticed that she too was looking thoughtful. But he couldn't test his idea: when he took a tiny step towards the magician, he turned his head and stared directly at him. His small, dark eyes reinforced the impression of a bird of prey.  
"Stop," hissed de Groot. Then, louder, "Everybody stand still, nobody moves!"  
Geralt now noticed that the first soldiers also prepared to move. One of them, still quite close to the palace wall, was searching his gaze. It was one of the commanders responsible for the crowd of guards posted at the entrances. He shook his head very slightly, and the man understood. A light movement of the commander's hand was enough, and the soldiers stopped.  
  
Ciri, however, had kept her eyes on de Groot. She thought she had recognized something in his face when the cat school witcher was mentioned. Anyway, there were few possibilities to whom the magician might have referred. In any case, it did not seem to be a coincidence that de Groot had chosen Adan's disappearance of all things like the time when he proved to the court that he still existed.  
"Why do you want the feline out of the way?" she asked bluntly. "He's fast. But not as fast as me, you realize that?"  
"You may be quick but are you such a lewd witch that you really don't care about your father's life?" de Groot replied scornfully.  
"It is unwise to talk about my daughter that way," Emhyr interjected. His voice had taken on a disturbing timbre, for someone with a blade aimed at his neck.   
De Groot ignored his tone. Strangely enough, he looked briefly behind him. Did he want to make sure that the soldiers really did not move?  
  
"Why don't you just tell us what you want?"  
Geralt's tone was as calm as Emhyr's had been before. In fact, at that moment, he considered numerous ways to distract de Groot, remove the knife from Emhyr's neck, finish de Groot off once and for all. After the vampire, he thought, this was a ridiculous business. A temporary threat. A mage who didn't even use proper magic but instead relied on the clumsy force of an ordinary weapon. What exactly was he, just another upstart, of which there were plenty in the academies? One of those whose strength was just enough to tame the chaos, but whose hunger for power was many times greater than his real talent? A small threat, unimportant - would it not be the fact that the knife was aimed at the throat of the man Geralt was to marry in two days. And he would do it; no magic could stop him, and certainly no ridiculous dagger. He considered and rejected numerous ideas, from a simple sign - his fingers almost bent in hasty action - to the contents of a wine glass that poured over de Groot. This possibility was as simple as it was stupid, just like the menace itself.  
  
"What I want," de Groot repeated slowly. His hand with the blade seemed to tremble for a moment, perhaps that was just imagination.  
"Revenge? Justice? Redemption?"  
There was murmuring in the rows of the guests. Apparently, the Skelligers began to argue about whether a simple throw of a knife would not put a quick end to the matter. Others, who were not among the bold islanders, looked more like they were looking for a way out that would save their own lives above all else.  
"These are questions, not answers. Revenge for what? Justice for which injustice? Redemption for whom?"  
Emhyr's voice, penetrating the last corner of the yard, had an almost mocking undertone. He still looked stubbornly straight ahead, so he couldn't see Geralt shaking his head disapprovingly. However, Geralt lacked experience in this respect. Abductions and threats of this kind were purely political business for Emhyr - something every ruler had to prepare for, and for which everyone was trained. Even Cerys knew this, although Skellige certainly had other customs, including dealing with personal threats. But the way she stood there, a hand resting on Hjalmar's arm, whose frown line probably had less to do with the fact that it was Emhyr who was being threatened than with anyone daring to disturb the festivities - it showed that she understood. Understood that violence was not the way out of this game. At least not now… and not yet.  
  
"Revenge and justice for an injustice, that's right," de Groot replied slowly.  
Geralt saw Triss and Yennefer whispering something to each other. He frowned. What were they up to? He concentrated on the sorcerer, who stood there as if it would be difficult for him to stand at all. Did his hand clasp the knife tighter? It was hard to tell.  
"Does the academy feel passed over? Is that it?" scoffed Emhyr. "A little too much effort for that."  
"The academy?" De Groot sounded surprised, "This isn't about the academy at all."  
"Then why kill the headmaster?"  
De Groot drew his mouth into an ugly grin.  
"He was just a pawn," he replied. "An old score that has finally been settled, so to speak."  
Once more, he looked behind for a split second. There was nothing. The soldiers had retreated again and would only approach him laterally, if at all. Geralt wondered what de Groot saw back there.  
"We do not have much time left," de Groot continued. "All this will soon be over. A final farewell from Assire var Anahid."  
A murmur went through the rows of guests while a steep wrinkle appeared on Emhyr's forehead.  
"She is dead. This time for good."  
  
"Certainly, you made sure of that," de Groot replied. His face was remarkably smooth for the fact that there was so much bitterness in his voice at that moment. No, not only bitterness, Geralt recognized, also anger. He was not the only one who noticed this. "Who was she to you?" Emhyr asked. He sounded curious, having every reason to be interested in the answer. Assire had caused so much suffering and pain with her sinister plans. Was it possible that she had planned so far ahead? All the time, they had been wondering what alliances de Groot might have forged - but living mages might not even have played a role. It was incredible how much even now, beyond her death, she still tried to harm him. She had died twice, once by his own hand, which Emhyr did not regret a bit. And still, she caused trouble. However, she could not possibly have known about the wedding, which had not even been planned when Assire was still alive. So, was de Groot simply using a time when he thought Emhyr was at his most vulnerable? He might be right about that. But it also made him most angry.  
  
"She was very much to me," the sorcerer replied quietly, so quietly that it was hard to be understood. "She taught me. She... nourished me with her knowledge. What she had learned from the druids, things that are frowned upon in the academies. She said she wanted to make another attempt to bring you to your senses, Emperor."  
"Bring _me_ to my senses?" Emhyr calmly repeated. "I think she has succeeded, for I have rid the world of her once and for all."  
Emhyr heard the soft hiss of Ciri and could well imagine his daughter's angry look, but he did not turn his head. He saw the tip of the blade from the corner of his eye. But she did not move, even now, not after these words.  
Geralt noticed it, too. A quick glance at Triss and Yennefer confirmed that they shared his suspicions. Ciri might have been a little closer to Emhyr, but Geralt couldn't make her understand what he believed. So, he had to be the one to test his theory - he didn't want to rely on the sorceresses, as precise as their magic might be, they were standing a little further, and that could go wrong. His hand formed a sign.  
  
But before he could activate it, before anyone could have reacted, a figure jumped out of the shadows, threw himself on de Groot, and struck him with a blade. De Groot disintegrated - the illusion Geralt had believed in for a while disappeared silently, and the assassin's dagger whistled past Emhyr by a hair's breadth.  
A scream went through the crowd. The Skelligers shouted sharp curses until Cerys calmed them down with the power of her royal charisma - and a lot of her own swears.  
"Damn it, that could have gone wrong," Ciri shouted at the assassin.  
"Where is he?" he yelled back.  
Geralt briefly put a hand on Emhyr's arm. A glance, a nod, no words were needed. Geralt turned to the sorceresses.  
"My medallion didn't strike."  
"Neither could simple magic reveal that it was only an illusion," Yennefer replied. She was obviously furious about it. "We had the choice to either prepare a spell that would reveal the illusion or attack him directly. But the assassin was faster."  
She glanced at Birke, who had just put his weapon away. "He must still be here," Birke replied. "That much I know about illusions. He can't be far."  
"That's true," said Triss. "We should..."  
  
At that moment, Adan came back. Although he didn't know that something had happened in the meantime, he immediately grasped the mood - still most of the guests were standing, talking wildly, and there was Birke with a grim face.  
Adan accelerated his steps.  
"What happened?" he asked. "The fireworks look okay, as far as I can tell..."  
"De Groot appeared here. As an illusion," Triss interrupted him. The feline's eyes widened, and he glanced quickly at Emhyr.  
"Why did he strike only after _you_ had left?"  
Geralt looked at Adan thoughtfully.  
"You mean he wanted me out of the way on purpose?"  
"Or he acted spontaneously," Emhyr pondered. "He told me to call my henchman back. Maybe he didn't want you around the fireworks."  
"But I was there, and it seems quite innocuous."  
"Except for the fact that we didn't plan any fireworks at all," Emhyr said.  
"We should stop it," Triss said, slightly nervous. "If de Groot is there right now..."  
The captain of the soldiers had already approached Emhyr, and he ordered him to not only send soldiers to the place where the fireworks were to be started, but to search the rest of the palace as well.  
  
"What can he do with fireworks?" Adan asked.  
"You're the one carrying explosives as if it was completely normal," Geralt replied. "You tell us."  
"Fireworks don't have even a fraction of the explosive power of a bomb. Don't think you can kill anybody with them. It's not nearly enough for that either."  
"Have you examined any of these?" asked Ciri.  
"You mean did I cut it open and took it apart? Of course not," the feline replied, briefly turning to her.  
"Because it's _explosive_ ,“ Geralt replied.  
"Of course, all right, we really should call this off," said Adan, and this time he sounded slightly worried. Without another word, he ran back in the direction he had just come from.  
"You think these are not fireworks?" asked Lambert, who had come closer together with Eskel, with a frown. Geralt shrugged.  
"I'm just being careful. De Groot is obviously planning something."  
"I don't understand what he is up to. What was all this talk about Assire?" Triss asked angrily.  
  
"This fake attack was just a diversion," Yennefer said. "But his motive does indeed seem to lie in the past. He mentioned the druids."  
"Assire survived thanks to them, back then..." mumbled Triss. She spoke in a low voice because that was information not everyone needed to hear. "She also used magic that she learned from them. Apparently, she passed some of it on to de Groot."  
"He seemed nervous," Yennefer replied thoughtfully. "It's not unlikely she planted some ideas in his head that were too much for him."  
"Too much in what way?" Ciri followed up. She wondered for a moment if such a lesson had been part of the endless lectures on magic the sorceresses had given her as a child. In the meantime, Cerys and Hjalmar had approached to offer their support - they didn't understand what was going on, but out of loyalty to Geralt and his help alone they would be on his side that evening. Geralt wondered briefly if Emhyr was clear about what this might mean for the future. On the other hand, it was unlikely that even now, despite everything, he would not think about it.  
  
"You're right," Triss nodded in Yennefer's direction, ignoring Ciri for the moment. Then she turned to Emhyr. "Sometimes magic is like a weight on the scales," she said, "How hard it is, in which direction it goes, little things decide. The healing magic had corrupted Assire. She must have done something similar with de Groot. Perhaps she had enhanced his powers. With consequences. Perhaps he succumbed to the illusion that he would have to carry out Assire's wishes even after her death."  
"So, he is simply insane?" Emhyr asked impatiently.  
"He may be crazy, but he is also dangerous," Geralt said calmly. "Call off the banquet, and then we will go and look for him."  
"The assassin is right; he cannot be far," Lambert returned. "We will find him. By the way, where is he?"  
"Who?"  
"Why, the assassin!"  
Birke had indeed disappeared again wholly unnoticed. Emhyr did not care who found de Groot first. His brain clung to one thought: two days. Only two days left. He was fed up with the fact that he was continually getting obstacles in his way. Against his better judgment, Emhyr did not believe in fate or destiny. For if he did, he would have to believe that fate had something against this wedding. And he did not want to consider that.  
"Very well," said Emhyr, "I will…"

He didn't get to finish his sentence because at that moment, the muffled sound of a small explosion sounded. As if on command, everyone turned around. All those present stared up at the sky. The previously dark night sky, in which only a few scattered stars had been visible, was illuminated by colorful lights. Bright colors exploded in the sky, forming a star-shaped formation for a moment, flashing and finally fading.  
"Fuck, the feline is too late," Lambert cursed.  
Shortly after that, the sound followed again, but now only the jumpiest among the guests flinched. Once more, light shone in the sky.  
"Looks like normal fireworks to me," Eskel said, eyes narrowed as if he could see more from down there, if only he focused hard enough.  
"A little magically amplified maybe," muttered Yennefer, who also stared strained upwards. "But not really worrying."  
In fact, nothing was alarming about the spectacle that transformed the sky into bright colors and shapes as it truly was colorful and of fascinating beauty, and it by no means missed its effect on the guests. The sight made even Geralt forget the momentary threat for a moment - he reached for one of Emhyr's hands and held it while looking up. Emhyr looked at him thoughtfully.  
"It started with fireworks. Does he intend to let it end like this?" Emhyr asked quietly.  
"What do you mean?" Geralt replied, surprised.  
"Don't you remember? Assire took advantage of the festivities at Vizima. With the fireworks, all the trouble just started."  
"Maybe not exactly with the fireworks, but at that night," Geralt agreed. There were certain things he liked to remember about that evening, but the dagger in his side was not one of them. Nevertheless, this was not a connection he had made.  
"Stop worrying," he said. "Now it may be too late to cancel the whole thing, but as long as this is going on up there," - he pointed to the sky - "everyone is busy. Lambert, Eskel, and I are going to search for de Groot."  
"I'm staying here," Triss immediately suggested, who had overheard their conversation. "Yennefer can accompany you."  
Yennefer nodded and replied, almost smiling, "One for protection, one for defense. Just like old times."  
"I'm staying too," Ciri said. "Another blade may make a difference." At the surprised looks of the others, she explained, "Well, I had a private word with Papa's tailor," and she pulled a veritable long knife from her robes.  
  
When the third and fourth firecrackers bathed the sky in green and red light, Geralt turned to the witchers, "Let's go."  
"Do we fetch our swords?" buzzed Lambert, whose eyes were treacherously flashing from the prospect of turning a boring banquet into a fight.  
"Takes too long. Use what you have," Geralt replied, knowing full well that the two of them would not have done without at least one knife in their boots, even for these celebrations.  
"You didn't bring a weapon?" Eskel asked.  
"If I have to, I'll kill the guy with my bare hands," Geralt replied grimly.  
The witchers and Yennefer moved towards the nearest exit. No one paid any attention to them; everyone continued to stare spellbound at the sky. The next small explosion announced another effect. They had almost reached the palace walls when Geralt noticed that they did not reflect any of the colorful lights that could have been expected now. Then a scream sounded.  
  
Geralt turned around abruptly. Only a few steps away from him, Emhyr stood together with Triss and his daughter, all of whom had heard the scream as well. He looked back at the guests. At first glance, everything seemed peaceful. Most of them were still looking up, perhaps a little confused now, because the sky was currently filled only with clouds of smoke but not with lights. He saw the Skelligers, all of them warriors, who had perhaps realized a moment earlier than the others that something was wrong. And then he saw the next firecracker rise into the air. Something told him that he shouldn't be able to see it at all. The angle was strange, and how could his eyes follow the flight so closely? But it wasn't until the projectile bored its way into the middle of the guests, hit the ground near the entrance to the gardens, and caused chaos and screaming that he understood. The fireworks had become explosive projectiles, equivalent to bombs. One shot became two, then three, until they flew into the crowd in rapid succession, whistling, and hissing.  
  
In a fraction of a second, Geralt saw Adan out of the corner of his eye jumping over a low hedge, as swift as an arrow, repelling one of the shells with his sword. The mage followed him, now just a single wave of anger. His forehead was bleeding - the feline must have hit him there. De Groot seemed to follow Adan, but he stayed close to the entrance to the gardens. Behind there, Geralt concluded, was where the firecrackers were fired - only that they were no longer harmless. Cries echoed through the night as more and more explosive and partly burning parts were showered down on the guests. Some sought shelter under the tables. Others ran towards the entrances; Hjalmar rushed at Cerys to protect her, if only with his massive body.  
  
"Triss!" Geralt yelled. "Get Emhyr out of here!" The projectiles did not quite reach them yet, but it was clear that the impact was getting closer and the frequency had increased. By now, it was a veritable thunderstorm, a bombardment of pyrotechnic devices that hit the ground and people with enormous force. Many were already lying on the ground. The palace courtyard had become a chaos of bodies, blood, and small fires that erupted everywhere.  
  
"We have to help Adan," Geralt shouted to the witchers and Yennefer over the shouting and the noise. The feline was clearly in distress: while he tried to escape the impacts, de Groot fired a spell at him, barely visible through smoke and confusion. Still, perhaps the mage produced his own projectiles, which Adan found increasingly difficult to repel. "Someone must turn the fireworks off!" shouted Eskel.  
"It is too late for that," Yennefer yelled back. "No one can stop it now. I will take care of de Groot. You try to protect the people! "  
They were now almost back with Emhyr, and Ciri, who had heard Yennefer, shouted, "I'll be with him faster, take care of Papa!"  
"You cannot mess with a sorcerer," Yennefer yelled, but Ciri had already disappeared in a flash of light.  
"It's not the first time," Geralt replied as he reached for Emhyr to get him out of the line of fire. "Besides, she brought down a vampire. With magic."  
"With magic she could hardly control," Yennefer hissed as she grabbed the skirt of her black dress and ran in Ciri's direction.  
  
Ciri reached de Groot in the blink of an eye. But despite her superhuman speed - which visibly surprised him - the mage managed to hurl his magic at Adan one last time. Now it was clearly visible: they were arrows, massive, iron, and enormously pointed arrows, which he let shoot out of his hands with the help of his magic. Arrows like the one that was supposed to hit Emhyr during the hunt - even though they were formed from pure energy, they were no different from actual projectiles. But while de Groot had not hit yet because Adan was incredibly fast and although Ciri's arrival should have distracted him, he finally succeeded in what he had been trying to do all along. The new salvo came at an unusual angle. Adan fended off two of them with his sword; almost all the others whizzed past him. But he could not fend off one of the arrows in time. It hit him right in the middle of his right shoulder, and the elf not only lost his balance and went down, but the sword slipped out of his hand. Ciri stood between him and de Groot and raised her blade.  
  
"I'm sick of you," she said. Surprisingly not sounding angry, which should have warned the mage. But like his mistress Assire, whom he had admired so much, he underestimated Ciri. Wordlessly, de Groot raised his hands and directed another barrage of his deadly arrows at her. With a single, flowing movement of her hand, she repulsed his attack. The arrows crashed against an invisible wall. The energy it radiated was so strong that Adan's medallion performed a burst of dance on his armor. He reached with his left hand for the shaft that protruded from his shoulder and tugged at it, cursing in elder speech. De Groot realized faster than expected that Ciri could become dangerous to him. He made another attempt to attack her, but this time she hurled his arrows right back at him as she slowly moved toward him. To her surprise, de Groot ducked down, jumped surprisingly nimbly to the side, and ran towards the chaos he had created among the guests.  
Ciri quickly turned to Adan, who was now on his knees and had managed to pull the arrow from his shoulder.  
"Go," he said between clenched teeth. There was no need for any further request - Ciri followed the mage. Adan reached out his left hand to reach for his sword - but at that moment, something dark shot past his side, grabbed his sword, and disappeared to where de Groot had run. For once, the feline was too slow - but he recognized the assassin's figure that was chasing de Groot. Swearing, the elf got up and went after them.  
  
There was still chaos in the yard. Above all the shouting, the running back and forth, the noise, the wounded and dead, Emhyr was surprisingly stubborn. He refused to retreat into the palace, even though the commander himself had come running and visibly nervously insisted that he be taken to safety. Most of the soldiers, who had been called back by the noise, took care to get the guests out of the line of fire, but by now, this proved almost impossible. The projectiles were still coming, and at an ever-increasing speed. Half of the courtyard was now on fire.  
"You have to..." Geralt began insistently, but Emhyr interrupted him.  
"I want to know where he is," he replied firmly.  
"No, you're leaving _now_ ,“ Geralt snapped at him. "The fires are about to spread to the second exit."  
In the meantime, bells could be heard from far away - the fire had not gone unnoticed in the rest of the palace. Soon, servants would arrive to try to put out the fire, but they had no idea of the danger that was still hanging over everyone because of the bombing. In fact, the fires caused by the explosions continued to spread and were soon as dangerous as the misdirected firecrackers. The light wind that blew in from the direction of the gardens did the rest. Since it was where the projectiles came from, no escape was to be found there. Only two exits offered escape possibilities.  
  
Geralt grabbed Emhyr by the arm, determined to get him out of the danger zone by force if necessary. The impacts came closer. Lambert and Eskel jumped to the side, cursing as a small crater in the ground almost directly beside them - one of the projectiles had hit there. Geralt stood with his back to them and was about to turn around when Emhyr, of all people, saw the next movement above their heads out of the corner of his eye. More by instinct than by seeing it, he pulled Geralt aside. Another firecracker shot past him, grazed his arm and hit the ground next to the two of them, a hair's breadth away.  
"Are you crazy?" Geralt yelled and began to slap on Emhyr's arm - his clothes had caught fire at this point, Emhyr stood surprisingly calm. He almost had the feeling of standing next to, watching himself. But this passed quickly, and finally, he understood the danger. Hastily, he tore off his long coat and murmured, "Maybe we should really leave now."  
"Idiot," Geralt growled.  
"Are you glad that you can say that for once?"  
  
"Watch out!" Lambert suddenly shouted behind them. In the meantime, the witchers had tried to put out some of the smaller fires with signs and had raised their blades. De Groot stood there. The sorcerer had an unnatural glitter in his eyes - he had gone completely insane, Geralt thought, very close to the truth. In the chaos, Triss had helped some of the toppled guests, put out fires, and cleared the way. She saw de Groot and, without thinking, cast a spell on him. She used the energy of the environment, and of all things, a beam of fire came from her hands. But de Groot repulsed it with a simple gesture of his hand, and the spell fizzled out in the hot air.  
Only seconds later, Ciri materialized behind the magician, the blade raised high. Above all the noise, de Groot’s voice rose.  
"If I go down, you all go down with me," he roared.  
Yennefer appeared behind Ciri, "Get down!" she yelled. "He'll blow himself up rather than give up!"  
De Groot laughed. _The witch is right,_ he thought - they were his last clear thoughts. His very last thoughts were not of himself.  
_"You failed again,“_ said the voice in his thoughts.  
"Have I?" replied something in him that was no longer himself. "Really? But if I did, no one will live to tell about it."  
  
One last time, he felt it, he raised his arms. Although projectiles were still hitting them, a force that had never been his created even more of them, flowing directly from his fingertips. Small, explosive, deadly projectiles aimed directly at Emhyr and the witchers. Time almost seemed to slow down as one of them headed straight for Emhyr, in a trajectory that none of them seemed to be able to stop.  
No one, except one - apparently from nowhere, Birke jumped forward, made a tremendous leap like a predator, raised the sword he had taken from Adan, and fended off the projectile.  
It bounced off the blade of the sword, and faster than the human eye could grasp it - and almost faster than the sorcerers could grasp it themselves - it crashed on a new trajectory directly into de Groot's face. Pointed and relentless, it drilled into his forehead, exploded and splashed blood and brain matter around.  
  
"The magic!" Yennefer suddenly shouted, and she leaped forward, grabbing the confused Ciri by the arm. "It will now be set free!"  
At first, no one understood what she meant. De Groot's body stood upright for a second as if his destroyed brain needed a moment to realize that it was finally defeated. Then, instead of just falling over, his bloodied body sank to its knees. And suddenly, everyone felt it: a strange power seemed to emanate from this dead body. Magic that had never belonged to the magician had been trapped in this vessel of flesh and bone for too long. But now it was free, no longer held by anything, no longer channeled by anything. The force could leave the body, but it was such a powerful force that it could still bring death and destruction shortly before its end.  
  
" _Down!_ " Yennefer bellowed as she feverishly tried to cast the broadest possible protection spell. Triss, a few steps away from her, tried the same thing. Now the witchers understood. Geralt knocked Emhyr to the ground, throwing Quen over them both.  
Lambert and Eskel got down on their knees, worked Quen as well, and Eskel just managed to pull Ciri into the circle. Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert were now so close together that their shields touched. At the interfaces, they overlapped with a hissing sound. They had only done this once when they were all very young. It had been one of those experiments that young witchers sometimes did when they were exuberant or bored - although Vesemir had always tried hard to drive those feelings out of them. It was not without danger to connect the shields in this way, and all three witchers remembered almost involuntarily the blast it had given them at that time. But the protective wall held. All around them were fire, explosions, screams, and chaos, but three united Quen shields held. At the same moment, just before the overwhelming power emanating from de Groot's dead body was finally transformed into a white, blinding light, Adan was with them. He threw himself on Triss, went down with her, and protected her under his own shield.  
  
Then, for a moment, the world seemed to go up in flames, explode or simply collapse - in the end, each of them had their own explanation of what happened. Yennefer protected most of the Skelliger with probably the most potent protective spell she had ever created. Still, even she had to close her eyes in the face of the unbelievable brightness that raced through the palace courtyard for a few seconds. The force was strong, tugging at all protective spells, flowing through everything in its path, pushing objects and people aside as if they were just leaves in the wind. But then, finally, it died, and the last sound that emanated from it was almost a sigh. When it was all over, Adan loosened his shield, and in front of everyone, he grabbed the stunned Triss and kissed her. But in fact, no one paid any attention to them. The shields of the other witchers died, and someone else had had the same thought. Geralt pulled Emhyr to his knees, wrapped his arms around him, and kissed him long and passionately. Everyone looked at only the two of them, and perhaps - despite everything - a sigh could be heard from somewhere. Someone, maybe one of the Skelligers, muttered, sounding pleased, "This is the strangest wedding ever." 

[](https://abload.de/image.php?img=abckopieygj8m.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "Noldor". Art is by [Mothelia](https://twitter.com/_Mothelia_).
> 
> So, what kind of music did the Skelligers bring with them? I think it was something like Tyr. Have this song with the lyrics and translation: [Turið Torkilsdóttir. ](https://lyricstranslate.com/de/t%C3%BDr-turi%C3%B0-torkilsd%C3%B3ttir-lyrics.html)


	36. You'll be the flame, I'm the spark

**\- 35 -**

**Epilogue: You’ll be the flame, I’m the spark**

_\- Touissaint, a few days later -_

The wedding took place a few days later, on Corvo Bianco - in secret, without any guests except the witchers, Ciri and Triss. It was quite clear that the celebrations would have to be repeated on a grand scale. Still, after the disaster in Nilfgaard, it would have been impious to go back to business as usual. Emhyr had ordered a flag of mourning, publicly announced a full investigation of the events, deplored the deaths and initiated all the other bureaucratic madness that had come his way. But afterward he had said he did not want to wait any longer.  
"If fate thinks it can constantly put obstacles in our way, then it has messed with the wrong person," he had said to Geralt.  
"You sound defiant," the latter had replied, smiling.  
"Fine, then I am defiant," Emhyr had said. "I defy destiny. You should understand something about that."  
  
Geralt had understood one thing above all: that he also wanted this covenant now, and immediately. Their future was always uncertain; a single assassination attempt, a single mistake in the hunt for monsters might be enough. Their lives were as fragile as glass. Emhyr had to sense this much more clearly than he did, although they always avoided this topic. So, although Geralt knew that sooner or later he would have to squeeze himself back into the clothes that would be appropriate for the official occasion, he was even more surprised by Emhyr's enormous concession. In fact, it had been his own idea. Corvo Bianco was not too far away, and no one would suspect that the Emperor would be there - when he traveled, he was always surrounded by an enormous entourage whose purpose was, among other things, to announce who was just about to grace the streets with his presence. But he suggested that Triss took them to the winery by portal.  
  
Ciri was to hold the ceremony. She had been astonished at first when she heard about it. Still, in fact, it was one of the privileges of the Emperor's family, regardless of the tradition’s probable dark origins - but what tradition did not have those?  
Lambert and Eskel were Geralt's family, bloodline or not, and he would never have done this without them. Geralt did not care if the ceremony held any legal value. In front of the world, they would officially marry in half a year, this time, hopefully without significant difficulties. Strangely enough, the catastrophe did not seem to stop anyone from returning for the next wedding attempt. Not only the Skelligers had, obviously amused, assured that they would be happy to attend the wedding under more pleasant circumstances. But now they were standing in what was closest to home for Geralt - except that every place where Emhyr was, was home for him.  
Since this was his residence, he had insisted on wearing what he wanted - and what he wanted was his armor. Besides, what really had amused Emhyr, he had also wanted to choose his clothes. Geralt had chosen the dark blue garments with the subtly embroidered suns, to which he had worn the matching set. It seemed to be ages ago, while it had truly been only a few days.   
  
The ceremony was simple and short, yet another of Emhyr's concessions. Geralt had been amazed at how strenuously he had tried to conform. It showed him how much he could still learn about the man, and that touched him. When Emhyr finally put the ring on his finger, his breath faltered for a moment. Geralt had never told him about the dream, from which the more he recovered, the more he didn’t know for sure was really a dream. Something told him that it might have been something completely different, but Geralt preferred not to think about it. But whatever it had been, Geralt had never believed it was a premonition. Nevertheless, the ring Emhyr gave him was simple, albeit made of finest silver - and decorated with an engraved flame. Emhyr had made quite a mystery of the rings and refused to show them to him before. Still, Geralt already suspected what the other one would look like when he gave it to him. Just like in his dream, Emhyr's ring, which Geralt put on his finger with a ridiculously broad grin, was engraved with the head of a wolf. The only difference to his dream was that this ring was made of gold.  
After the end of the ceremony, and the obligatory kiss, which took place without any stupid remarks from Lambert, the two of them went outside and left the small company in the care of Marlene. She had insisted on serving a feast despite the brief announcement.   
  
Outside, Geralt led Emhyr into the herb gardens, which were somewhat protected from the cold. Even in Touissaint, autumn slowly turned into winter, and it became chilly. But now, it did not matter. It didn't matter where they were either. No sooner were they far enough away from the house than both looked at their intertwined hands in astonishment.  
"We really did it," Geralt said quietly.  
"We did," confirmed Emhyr. His eyes bore a sparkle that Geralt knew well. In this case, it was the purest sign of joy, he could smile well with his eyes only.  
  
"Why the different colors?" Geralt asked, looking at the rings. It was as if he couldn't take his eyes off them at all.  
"It had to be gold," Emhyr replied seriously. "Because you - even if it sounds sentimental - are most precious to me."  
Geralt raised his brows.  
"Oh, and did you think you were less precious to me?"  
This made Emhyr laugh, and Geralt enjoyed the rare opportunity.  
"You really are an idiot," he replied as he took his hand out of Geralt's and pulled Geralt closer to him.  
"You keep saying that," Geralt returned hoarsely, for the sudden closeness did not remain without effect. "Enlighten me."  
"What, dear husband, is more precious to you than the silver needed for your sword?" replied Emhyr, his face now very close to Geralt's. That was, Geralt had to admit, thoughtful. Symbolically. And romantic. But he did not express it.  
"Say that again," he demanded. He wore the smile like the ring, and it didn't want to disappear.  
"Husband," Emhyr repeated. Geralt smiled. He seemed not to be able to stop.  
"I still owe you a dance," he said.  
"I know," replied Emhyr, enjoying the smile. His hands moved deeper, and he whispered, "But we _are_ dancing, Geralt. We are dancing."  
Geralt's eyes widened.  
"Now? Here? They will..."  
"Be still, husband."  
And Geralt was still. At least for a while.  
  
If at that moment, anyone had come up the narrow path through the vineyards, which ran a short distance next to the herb gardens, they would have heard sounds that were not exactly typical for this place. So late in the fall, there were only a few workers on Corvo Bianco. As the winery was still not producing any yield, there had been no grape harvest. It was only at the beginning of the new year that the grapes' cycle would begin again with the pruning. It was, therefore, extremely unlikely that anyone would pass by here at this very moment. But if this had happened, they would probably have stopped for a moment, just to make sure that the noise was not due to serious matters. However, the extremely tolerant inhabitants of Touissaint were familiar with these kinds of noises and would have soon come to the right conclusion. Perhaps they would have even thought - without suspecting who it was - that a young couple, maybe even newlyweds, had been looking for a quiet place here.  
  
They were not young, and no one came by. The sounds were mixed with restrained laughter that rose into the air like a flock of startled birds that had missed the migration season. The last leaves trickled from the surrounding trees; the first frost was looming. The air was cold. It picked up the sounds, the sighing, the laughing, everything that was there, without caring. They rose into the air, high up, and scattered throughout the small, peaceful vineyard.  
Peaceful, at last.  
At least for the moment.

[](https://abload.de/image.php?img=tumblr_f2291e421491eaw7j2k.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from "This storm." Art is by [@artwinsfandoms](https://artwinsfandoms.tumblr.com). Thank you very much for your support, also a huge SCHMATZ for [Enveva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enveva/pseuds/enveva) for being my wonderful beta on this, it was quite a journey! Thank you to everyone who read this and will be reading this in the future. I'll never be far away, so please leave a comment or join me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/DreamAndroids) or [Tumblr](https://do-androids-dream-ao3acc.tumblr.com) for a word, if you like.
> 
> What happens after this? Story goes on in ["Theatre of Pain"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28570521/chapters/70018527).


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